I stifled another sneeze. “I don’t think anybody’s here,” I said uncertainly. The shelves and counters around us looked like they hadn’t been disturbed in years. Dusty junk covered every surface. Hundreds of small, lacquered boxes carved with geometric designs filled one bookshelf and spilled onto a nearby table, where a dozen small wax dolls stood on hooks, each stuck with a dozen different pins. A magazine rack overflowed with old journals and books bound in leather and what looked like tree bark. The aisles were stuffed with furniture, dusty rolls of carpet, trunks and wardrobes that looked like holdovers from before the last century.

I stopped in front of a full-length mirror set into a gold frame. ‘Y’tir’uce’sni’ was carved into the frame over the glass. I was sure it meant something important, but it was nonsense to me. The thin film of dust over the mirror made my reflection blurry, turned my hair even frizzier than normal and somehow made my thighs bulge out wider than my hips. Behind my reflection, I could see Riley’s perfectly-proportioned frame moving down the aisle. When I focused back on my own reflection, I saw the red splotch of a pimple about to form on my forehead. I clamped a hand over my mouth and jerked away from the glass, feeling around my hairline, but there was no lump to be found.

“He is here,” Riley said grimly, taking me by the arm and starting down the aisle. “Do you not smell him?”

I stumbled after him, sucking air in through the sleeve of my sweater. We passed a shelf of multicolored orbs that appeared, through some trick of the light, to be floating a few inches above their clawed pedestals. “Smell what?” I asked, and then sneezed again. All I could smell was dust.

“YOU’RE IN THE WRONG STORE,” a metallic voice boomed down the aisle, making me jump. Riley took a sharp right at the next intersection, following the sound. “THE PHARMACY IS TWO DOORS DOWN. GET AN INHALER. Oh.” There was a brief clatter, and the voice turned normal, if a bit raspy. “Hey, Squidface! Why didn’t you tell me you were dropping in?”

I turned the corner to find a low counter kiosk made of dark polished wood trimmed in bronze. A middle-aged, skinny man in a Chicago Bulls jersey and threadbare bathrobe sat behind the counter, an old-timey speaking horn at his elbow. He hunched over a cash register with a reserved, wild energy that made me think of a jungle cat. He grinned at Riley, and I noticed that his yellowed teeth, which held the end of a long black pipe, were sharpened to points. His eyes darted to me and back to Riley. “What have I told you about food in the shop, kiddo? I’m still cleaning offal out of the rafters from your sister’s visit.”