I try not to think about it. When I’m not working, I load a fresh roll of film into my Nikon F3 and stroll through the historic district, snapping some interesting closeup shots of the horse-drawn carriages and one of the drivers, dressed in colonial costume. I’m concentrating so hard on my work, I’m able to ignore a kissy-face gesture thrown my way by a random Golden across the Harborwalk. Don’t know you, don’t care. But when I spy someone familiar eating at a café—my teacher, Mr. Phillips, his round Harry Potter glasses glinting in the afternoon sun—I get nervous that he’s heard about me trying to hustle my way back into the magazine offices, and that’s just too much; I cap the lens of my camera and head back home before he sees me.

At lunch on the third day of radio silence, I’m still wondering about Lucky while shelving books in the psychology section when I hear a couple of noises that catch my attention. The first is a dog barking outside the shop. Not out of the ordinary. Lots of dog owners on our street.

The second thing is Mom talking at the register. Again, nothing unusual. It’s the tone of her voice that’s alarming. She’s using her Not Friendly tone. And when I peer around the antique printing machine in the middle of the shop to see who she’s talking to—when I see the tiny black dog on the leash that’s tied up outside our steps—I understand why.

I stride around the Nook’s printing machine, heart racing.

“Of course you can. It’s a free country,” Mom is telling Lucky, who is standing in front of the counter with his back to me, black leather jacket stretched across his broad shoulders and jeans hanging low on his hips like he’s a walking, talking advertisement for sexy rebel-without-a-cause teenage dreams. “Not going to kick you out of the store. I’m just asking why it is you’re here, is all. If you’re not buying anything. And why is that dog yapping?”

“He’s Bean the Magic Pup, and he’s trying to tell you that he wants to come inside. He hates being outside when he can see people inside.”

“I hate dogs,” Mom says, making a face. “They pee on things.”

“He’s house-trained. Mostly.”

“Nope. He’s not coming inside. Why are you here?”

“Trying to tell you,” he says, sliding something across the counter.

She frowns. “What is this?”

“Looks like cash,” he says. “A hundred and fifty dollars, to be exact.”

Mother of God.