She was nobody to anybody who bought this month’s copy of the Atlantic Monthly. But every person that read “Lost on the North Platte” by Clare Collins, those faceless people—what did she become to them after that? Her words, her life, pieces of her very being. Could she really still be nobody and still have some form of existence in their minds?

The woman with the purse dropped her keys on the sidewalk and bent over to pick them up.

Clare kept moving toward the liquor store. If she did end up telling Donna, Sergio, and Flynn about this latest development, she would remember to bring up these questions with them. She smiled and picked up her pace, dodging a guy with a buzz cut and ten multisized dogs radiating out from him on a fan of leashes taking up the whole sidewalk. It was exactly this sort of philosophical bullshit that would keep them up and drinking well into the night.

At the liquor store, Clare pushed aside worries over her rent that month and pulled three bottles of wine off the second-to-bottom shelf. If she didn’t decide to tell her roommates, she wasn’t sure how she would explain the out-of-character expense. At the register, Murphy raised his eyebrows when she lifted the bottles onto the counter. “Well.” He smiled at her with tobacco-stained teeth. “Looks like someone’s moving up in the world.” He gave her a sidelong look and punched the prices from the small orange labels into the keypad on his register. “One shelf at a time, that’s what I say. Nice and steady.” He chuckled.

“Very funny,” Clare said and nodded. “I just have a little bit of good news that I’m considering celebrating.”

“I should say,” Murphy said as he totaled her purchase. “That’ll be thirty-two twenty-one?” he asked, clearly wanting to know if Clare was sure she wanted to spend that much considering her usual max spend was something near nine dollars.

She nodded and added, “Can I also get a pack of Marlboro Lights.”

“No refunds,” he clarified.

“Jesus, Murphy. I have the money.” Clare pulled three tens and a five out of her wallet to prove it.

He held up his wrinkled palms. “Okay. All right. I just don’t want you waking up tomorrow in an apartment where the water’s been turned off and you suddenly realize, you know, that the bottom shelf coulda sufficed.” He took her money and counted out the change.

“Thanks for the concern. If you see me next week begging on the corner, you can tell me ‘I told you so.’”

He winked at her. “That’s a deal,” he said as he pointed at her then handed her the cigarettes before he bagged her bottles.

“Don’t you have some kids of your own to worry about?”