I smile tightly. “Sorry to disappoint. I get that comparison a lot, but I’m not Bettie.”

She’s confused for a moment, and then she winks exaggeratedly. “Ahh, gotcha. Don’t worry, I won’t say anything. Not a peep.”

We’re in on a secret together as she watches me browse. I can’t concentrate, painfully aware of her attention. This is what’s popular now: high-quality, artisanal presents from small but expensive holes-in-the-wall. I can see my younger sister Kaia now, gifting me a secret, never-before-released album from one of my favorite bands that she procured in a water-tower-turned-musical-speakeasy somewhere in New York; Athena, my other sister, topping her by gifting me a bathtub fashioned from a rare type of volcanic rock that self-heats, which she got from a store in Denmark that disappeared the day after she made her purchase. My relatives and I don’t give each other anything with a recognizable label: the more obscure and personalized, the more exclusive. I’m tired of giving the family’s worst gifts. I’m tired of everyone pretending my offerings weigh the same as theirs.

“Do you need help? Hunting for a present for someone special? Look at this,” the manager says, emerging over my shoulder with a clay pitcher. “I think your grandfather might like this.”

I jump. “Ah!” I twist a You don’t even know my grandfather into submission, because maybe that’s not true. Maybe Mary from Mary Had a Little Boutique knows Lawrence Watson better than I do. After all, he’s lived in Teller City half his life. “I’m not who you think I am.”

“Right, right.” She glances at the window, at all the cars parked along the slushy street. Business is booming at the evil shop next door. “They’re gonna run me out of business,” she laments. Then she cranes up at the sky, as if photographers might be dangling from helicopters. “We got this in today.” She shows me a crocheted sweater with a price tag of one hundred forty-five dollars. “Beautiful. Isn’t it beautiful? Handmade, too. Lady by the name of Daisy makes these, told me she only crochets one a month, they’re so much effort.”

“Mm.”

I’m going through the motions, picking up ceramic pots, feigning interest in cakes of handmade soap. Twenty-seven dollars. I need twenty-seven-dollar handcrafted soap that costs five bucks. I suppose it’s nice that everything here is sourced from local entrepreneurs, but there’s nothing in this store I can afford. A tiny knife for cutting cheese would prevent me from filling my car with gas for a week.

The manager grins with dollar signs for eyes. “Do you like coffee? We sell the most amazing ground coffee you’ve ever tried. Here, I can give you a sample.”

I’m given free samples of coffee, cologne, a bag of muffin mix, and tinted moisturizer. Eventually, I contrive an excuse to leave (“very busy, got a ‘thing’ ”) and she’s visibly disappointed but expresses hopes that I’ll return tomorrow.

Back out on the sidewalk in “downtown” Teller City, I force a slow exhale between my teeth, tightening my purse against my body. Wind snaps and belts like the feedback in an old home camcorder video. Next door, the mutual nemesis of Mary Had a Little Boutique and myself stares down with big block letters and Edison lanterns.