“Let’s take a look in here, Belle,” he says. Isabelle looks once more at the man with the scarf; he is still staring, and for a moment Isabelle wonders if maybe he is blind, but then he has no stick, she thinks, and no dog, and his gaze is too intense to be the vacant gaze of a blind man. She almost wishes that he were blind; it frustrates her that he can be so captivated by something she cannot discern.

“Coming?” her father says, and Isabelle turns to follow him into the store. “I was looking through the catalog for this place,” he says, his voice lower now in the store’s relative quiet. “But I can never tell what something’s really like unless I see it myself. And that way you save yourself the hassle of having to send the thing back if it’s not what you had in mind.”

Isabelle nods, looking around the store, which is spacious and dark and cool. It is what she could only describe as a store of gadgets, selling things utterly unnecessary along with elaborate models of everyday items, like the toaster oven her father is musing over now. “Electronic touch-pad control,” he mutters, reading the description. “Nonstick interior, four rack positions, six-slice capacity. Six slices!” He turns to Isabelle with what seems genuine enthusiasm. “Two pieces for each of us at the same time, that means!” He turns back to the toaster oven. “Interior oven light, auto shut-off—that’s good—and electronic toast control. Cool wall exterior.” He bends down to look at the oven more closely. “Cool wall exterior,” he repeats. “What do you suppose that means?” He opens the oven to peer inside. “The outside doesn’t get hot, I imagine,” he says. “That makes sense enough.” He closes the oven and straightens up. “What do you think, Belle? Think Mom would want a new toaster for Christmas?”

Isabelle looks at him uncertainly. She doesn’t want to hurt his feelings by shaking her head no, because her father seems truly impressed by the oven, but then again, she thinks, if she doesn’t hurt his feelings, her mother will hurt them when she opens the gift. She has seen it happen too many times, with the banana hanger last year, and the bagel slicer, and the mini stereo the year before.

“Well?” her father asks again, running his fingers over the oven.

Isabelle hesitates, and then she shrugs.

“Keep looking?”

Isabelle nods, but just then a salesman walks by and her father grabs his attention. “Excuse me,” he says. “Can you tell me about this toaster oven?”