It has been ten days since the funeral, and Jenna is not here. It’s like a mantra now, my personal maxim: I am wearing a sweater in June because even in the Texas heat I can’t seem to stop shivering, and Jenna is not here. I count out change from my piggy bank and order pizza online so I don’t have to speak to people with sunshiny voices unaffected by grief, and Jenna is not here. I walk to Downtown Books and stand at the window, telling myself I can stay there as long as I like, and Jenna is not here.

She’s not here.

My phone buzzes in my pocket as I stare into the bookstore, and my heart leaps into my throat for one beautiful, terrible moment because I think Jenna’s calling to tell me not to be a creeper.

But Jenna is not here. It’s the next best/worst thing: her dad.

I think about hitting the Ignore button, even though that seems doubly terrible, since I’m in the family text group, which was mostly Jenna and me sending random photos of ducklings and Mrs. Williams reminding us when our college admission and scholarship applications were due.

My thumb is hovering between the Answer and Ignore options when the screen lights up anew, this time with the Downtown Books phone number. Why on earth are they calling? Do they know I’m standing outside of their storefront like a golden retriever waiting for its owner to return?

Even this makes me think of Jenna’s funeral. Everyone was so intent on talking to me and offering their condolences, their voices jumbling over and around me in a cacophony I pretended to decipher. I glued myself to her casket, reluctant to leave her. I was a sentry, I told myself, and I would keep watch over her until I no longer could.

I shake the memory off. In a panic, I swipe to dismiss Mr. Williams and answer the bookstore’s call, walking a short way down the sidewalk so the person calling can’t see me through the window.

“Hello?” I clear my throat, which is scratchy from almost a full twenty-four hours of disuse.

“Amelia? Hi, it’s Becky from Downtown Books. We got a package in for you today. I just wanted to let you know!”

“A package? I didn’t order a book.”

“It’s not from our store, actually. It’s the weirdest thing … It’s some sort of transfer or something from a bookstore in Michigan, a place called Val’s?”

I shake my head and then, realizing she can’t see me, say, “What book is it?”

“Don’t know,” Becky says. “It came in an envelope and I didn’t want to open it since it’s not one of our usual packages. It has your name on it, though, and you’re the only Amelia Griffin in our system.”