“So sorry to keep you ladies waiting,” a voice says. Isabelle looks up. A balding, heavy-set man with glasses stands before her and her mother. “Busy afternoon in here. What can I help you all find?”

“First thing, actually, is a restroom,” Ruth says.

Isabelle looks up at her mother, alarmed by this.

“Of course.” The salesman points through a pair of swinging doors. “Follow that hallway to the end, bathroom is the last door on your left.”

Isabelle watches her mother disappear through the swinging doors, and her heart quickens. She feels hot, and she clamps her teeth together.

“What are we looking for today, huh?”

Isabelle stares at the swinging doors flapping back and forth until finally they’re still.

“Boots, is it? These boots here?”

Isabelle stares at her feet. She is wearing an old pair of Tretorns; slush has seeped back as far as the laces. They are dirty and worn.

“These are a good choice,” the man says. “Two very good pairs of boots, and I believe we’re fully stocked. They just came in this weekend. Perfect timing for the weather, huh?”

Isabelle looks at the man. He’s standing apelike before her, looking at her hopefully. The few strands of hair he’s got left he’s combed across his bald crown; some of them are out of place. She looks him in the eye and he drops his gaze.

“Well,” he says. “I guess a good place to start is by measuring your feet.” He pulls a stool in front of her and sits. “So if you just step out of those and stand…” Isabelle removes her sneakers, straightens her socks, and stands. Her socks are wet, too. “Sure is time for some boots, I guess,” the man says. “Got some wet feet there.” He bends down over her feet, adjusting the measuring device around her left foot. His shirt is coming untucked from the back of his pants, and his lower back is damp with sweat.

Isabelle looks up at the sound of the doors swinging on their hinges as her mother emerges from the back; she is eager for her mother to return and relieve this man of his discomfort. From in front of the doors, her mother signals with a single finger lifted that she’ll be another minute. She holds an invisible phone up to her ear. Isabelle narrows her eyes. Her palms begin to sweat.

“Looks like you’re a two this year.” She looks down at the salesman, who is looking up at her from where he’s crouched on the ground. The back of his neck is wrinkled into rolls. “That sound about right?”

Isabelle says nothing. Ordinarily, she would nod; she would acknowledge him in some small way. She doesn’t mean to make him so uncomfortable. But she can see her mother throwing glances in her direction as she talks on the phone behind the register—if she’s talking to anyone at all. Isabelle suspects that she’s pretending, and even if she’s not, her mother has left her alone with this man on purpose, so that she will be forced to talk. She stands there, silent.