My earliest memory is of reading Where the Wild Things Are to my sister, trying to drown out my mom’s shouting match with her latest boyfriend—I couldn’t even sound out all the words, but I needed to take us somewhere, anywhere, that was magical instead of messy. By second grade, when playground dynamics started to feel way too complicated, I’d spend recess lost in the pages of a chapter book. For my eleventh birthday, I invited my entire class to a Readathon party—I even reserved a room at the local library—but no one showed up. I stayed anyway, grateful for the librarians who always welcomed me. When I got to high school, I longed to go to the football games and parties everyone talked about, but I was usually home babysitting my sister. Mom wasn’t exactly reliable, so someone had to be—but hey, at least I had books to keep me company.

For better or worse, my library has always grown faster than my social circle.

Managing a bookstore has forced me out of my shell, helping me grow from a shy bookworm into someone who can confidently navigate conversations and recommendations—at least, in the safety of these shelves. Out in the world, I may be quiet and reserved, but here, I’ve found my voice.

Except now, Xander Laing has put all that at risk.

But it’s not just my future, my livelihood—it’s the customers I’ve served for five years. Like Beatrice Glaybold, who moved down to Florida but trusts me to send her any book I think will strike her fancy, or Michael Liu, who writes a literary column for the Boston Herald and bases his reading on my recommendations. Or James Kendall, who lost his wife last year and comes in weekly to buy a new book and chat.

If I lose this job, I lose them, too—and we all lose the store, this quiet refuge of words and stories.

When the bell on the front door chimes, I’m sitting in the back room of the shop, surrounded by boxes I haven’t opened. All I can do is stare into the middle distance while panic churns in my stomach.

A voice calls, “It’s me!” and a huge sigh of relief rushes out of my lungs. It’s my little sister (for her, I’d throw every book I own in front of a moving train—plus myself, for good measure).

“I’m in the back!” I call.

The front door closes, followed by the familiar step-step-tap as she makes her way across the polished wood floor.

“I brought rugelach,” Georgia says. She sets her cane against the desk, puts down a white to-go bag from Mamaleh’s in Cambridge, and finally her backpack. She’s heading to class at Tufts after this, and I feel a pinch of envy.

“Thank you, dear sister,” I say, grabbing one of the pastries.