“No,” I say, distracted, tracking Cyrus’s movements out of the corner of my eye. He disappears behind one of the shelves, and reemerges seconds later with a small pack of Band-Aids. For me? I wonder to myself. It’s the only explanation for why he brought me here, and it’s surprisingly thoughtful. Suspiciously thoughtful. Two years seems too short a time for someone to grow a heart from scratch.

No, it must be a ploy of some kind. Another trick up his sleeve. The fact that I can’t be certain of what he’s aiming for, exactly, unsettles me. Maybe he has plans of his own to humiliate me yet again, or maybe he just wants to get to my aunt through me. Either way, I can’t let my guard down around him. Not now, not ever.

“There’s another one for hair damage,” the woman continues, reeling my attention back to her.

“Thank you for the recommendation,” I tell her, “but I really don’t need any shampoo—”

“Everyone needs this shampoo,” she says, undeterred. “Everyone. Your favorite idol uses it. Your favorite idol’s idol uses it. I use the shampoo myself and it was the best decision I ever made—better decision than marrying my husband or buying an apartment in Puxi before the prices skyrocketed. If it’s the money you worry about, we have discount for first-time purchases …”

“That’s okay, but thank you,” I tell her, stepping back.

“We’ll just have this,” Cyrus speaks up, dropping the Band-Aids onto the counter.

Her face falls with such obvious disappointment that I almost consider buying the shampoo to cheer her up.

As soon as Cyrus finishes paying, he guides me back out onto the street and gestures for me to sit on an empty bench.

“She certainly loves that shampoo,” I can’t help remarking.

“Maybe they sponsored her,” Cyrus suggests, tearing open the pack.

“Maybe her grandparents founded the shampoo brand.”

“Maybe the founder of the shampoo brand was hiding in the pharmacy and listening to us the whole time.”

“Maybe the founder saved her life many years ago and asked only that she passionately promote their product in exchange.”

“Maybe the shampoo saved her life,” Cyrus suggests.

I snort. “How would that work?”

“Say a robber had been about to attack, but the shampoo made her hair so shiny that they completely forget what they were doing and stopped just to admire her glossy locks.”

“She did have pretty shiny hair,” I recall. “You know, I actually kind of want that shampoo now …” But the rest of my sentence screeches to a halt when Cyrus bends down before me and reaches for my left heel, his hand hovering an inch away from my bare ankle.