“Lucky?” I ask in small voice. “Do you think I should tell them that I broke the department store window? Would that help?”

His brow lowers. “Absolutely not. You said you wouldn’t, Josie.”

“But—”

“We already talked about this.”

“Why, though? Wouldn’t it be better for your parents if Levi Summers knew I did it? I don’t want to ruin their business—this is my fault.”

“What about LA? What about your father not taking you in if you have a police record? What about your mom putting you in a car and dragging you out of town before your grandmother even comes back—what about that, huh?”

Oh. Did I say that in the police station? Wait …

Is he worried I’m going to leave town again before Grandma comes back from Nepal? I try to catch his gaze with mine, but he won’t look at me. His eyes light everywhere but on my face, and that’s how I know for certain.

He’s worried I’m going to leave.

Well.

To be honest, so am I.

“Okay, hey,” I say. “I won’t tell them I smashed the department store window.”

His shoulders relax. “Okay.”

“It’s going to be fine.”

“It’s going to be fine,” he repeats.

I’m not sure either of us believe that one hundred percent, but we’re trying.

He taps his fingers on one of the book carts and looks around the stockroom at shelving filled with boxes of supplies and fixture parts—pegs and old signage and book stands—until his gaze pauses on the open door near the receiving desk. “That’s new. Used to be sitting off its hinges and the inside overflowing with junk.”

“Mom and I put it back on and I cleaned it out.” I brush off my hands and walk to the walk-in closet. “Darkroom. See? A very rudimentary, very tiny one.”

“You develop film in here?”

“Yep.”

“How does it work?”

“Like this …”

He follows me inside. “Wow. Close quarters.”

Man, he’s not kidding. I should’ve thought this through. “Uh, well. It’s normally just me in here.”

“Right, yeah. Cool clock,” he says, pointing to the wall. “Analog?”

“That’s my timer.” I try not to bump into his arm as I shuffle around him to flip on a lamp that sits on a makeshift plywood desk under the slanted part of the ceiling in the corner. Then I scoot past him, shut the door, and close a floor-length curtain over it.

“Cozy,” he says.

“That’s to ensure no light leaks in here from cracks,” I tell him, a little nervous.

“Ah.”