Natalie knew how to open, though she hadn’t done so since her college years. The morning routine was both familiar and mournful. Turning on the shop lights, she passed by shelves and table displays her mother had arranged. There were signs hand-lettered by Blythe, highlighting topics and titles of interest. In the café area, her mother had designated the week’s five-dollar special—a morning glory muffin and autumn-spiced latte. Natalie checked the supplies and made a note to get the muffins from the bakery across the way.

Last, she switched on the sign—a neon of an open book—and went behind the counter. The stool by the register had been her mother’s perch for the past thirtysomething years. Her mom was left-handed, so Natalie had to move the mug full of pens, the mouse and keyboard.

Taking her place on the stool, she was flooded with anxiety. Judging by the contents of her mom’s medicine cabinet, her mother had suffered from unspoken worries of her own. Had she fretted about the finances? Had she ever made a plan? Or had she believed that, like the denouement of a favorite novel, everything would work out in the end?

I don’t want to be mad at you, thought Natalie. Yet there was no mistaking the burn of frustration trying to make its way through her.

Mom used say, “To find out who you are, remember who you used to be.”

Deep breath. Close your eyes. Try not to cry. Natalie opened her heart to her mother, remembering when and how she’d come to the realization that she was a misfit.

Each day after school, Natalie took the city bus home, jumping off at the corner of Perdita and Encontra Streets and running half a block down to the bookstore. The grand entryway had a heavy glass door framed by lacquered black-painted woodwork, and a honeycomb pattern of black-and-white tile on the floor of the foyer.

She burst inside, jangling the bell over the door. Her mother was at the counter, perched on a tall swivel stool, a book open in front of her, a pretty scarf around her head.

“Mama, are we poor?” Natalie asked, shrugging out of her backpack.

“No,” said her mother offhandedly, scarcely glancing up. “Why do you ask?”

“Kayla Cramer says we’re poor. She called me a bad name—said I was a mongrel.”

Her mother’s lips twitched a bit. As she often did, she took To Kill a Mockingbird from her w.o.w. shelf. “‘It’s never an insult to be called what somebody thinks is a bad name. It just shows you how poor that person is, it doesn’t hurt you.’”

“She’s not poor,” Natalie insisted. “We are. Kayla says that’s why we never go on vacation even when school is out.”