Ava volunteered for shifts at the customer service desk with Tricia, their manager, to keep far away from Jules in stocking and assembly. Heartache felt like a persistent hangover: lethargy, a headache, an unshakeable belief in the cruelty of the world, drifting outside of time. It was hard to keep up the bullshit facade of industriousness when she felt entirely dead inside. The minutes dragged by as Ava attempted to look busy while Tricia hovered behind her.

A young woman with olive skin and thick, black-brown hair approached the desk, and Ava turned toward her desperately. “Good morning,” she said, trying to inject some cheerfulness into her voice—mostly for Tricia’s benefit. Ava thought she sounded strangled.

“Hi,” the woman said. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I think I lost my grandmother.”

“Lost her?” asked Ava.

“She was right behind me in the showrooms? I turned around to get her opinion, and she was gone. I’ve been looking for her for ten minutes and …” She trailed off, shrugging helplessly. Ava turned to find Tricia, then flinched back when she saw the manager already looming behind her. She hadn’t even heard Tricia approach.

“I’m so sorry to hear that,” Tricia said gravely. She had donned one of her Managerial Faces that Jules had reportedly seen her practicing alone in her office: Calm And In Charge. She tilted her head, the blond highlights in her midwestern manager-class haircut catching the light. “Let me make an announcement over the PA system. What’s her name?”

“Ursula,” the young woman replied. “Ursula Nouri.”

Tricia nodded, her face serious as she picked up the phone and pressed a button. Her voice came squawking out of the overhead speakers. “Good morning, shoppers. Would Ursula Nouri please meet her party at the customer service desk? Ursula Nouri to the customer service desk, please.”

Ava tried to smile reassuringly at the young woman. Tricia treated everything with the gravity usually reserved for state funerals and hostage negotiations.

Tricia set the phone back down in the cradle. “Can you tell me what your grandmother was wearing?”

The girl nodded. “She had on a red coat and some purple fleece gloves. Oh, and a leather purse. I’ve got a picture of her, if that helps?”

Tricia and Ava dutifully looked at the picture the girl pulled up on her phone. Ursula looked like a fairly average grandmother: white hair pulled into a low bun at the back of her neck, a billowy shirt hanging over a plump frame. The picture was obviously a selfie of Ursula and her granddaughter, the two of them smiling identically up at the camera.

“She seems nice,” Ava ventured.