"Is, uh, is Nadine still in town?"

"Oh yeah. You prolly passed her store on the way here. She runs The Constant Reader downtown. The bookstore."

Martin grinned. "You don't say. See you later, Sinjin."

"Later, brother. I'm gonna hold you to that dinner."

Martin had no intention of eating dinner with a stranger and his wife, but he said, "Look forward to it."

He met Sheila at the counter. "Do you mind running this stuff back to the house? I want to hit that bookstore on the way back."

Sheila chuckled. "Looking to get your ego stroked?"

"Or something," he said.

The bells above the door jingled pleasantly, making him think of wind chimes and patio lanterns, lemonade and the sweet smell of hay in the summer.

The Constant Reader smelled like every other bookstore he'd been in over the past several weeks, aside from a whiff of fresh-brewed coffee and patchouli beneath the strong musty odor of slowly decomposing paper. He lingered by the door a moment, looking over his little shrine, hoping someone would pass by the window and do a double take when they saw him standing beside his author photo, but nobody did.

"I'll be right there," a woman called from the stacks.

"No rush," he shouted back.

The interior was dimly lit with hanging lamps from the exposed rafters and painted ductwork. On the counter a snuffed-out incense stick leaned over a pile of ashes in a wood holder. There were pamphlets and money jars for various charitable causes, from Save the Oceans to Black Lives Matter, stacks of business cards for local artists and stickers on the cash register with slogans like THE FUTURE IS FEMALE and I AM A NASTY WOMAN.

A French coffee press stood near the register, still steaming. Near the stacks, a reading area had been set up with two cozy-looking armchairs and a round table. Under a small handmade sign with Femme Voices painted in red, books from Toni Morrison, Roxane Gay, Margaret Atwood and Ursula K. LeGuin rubbed shoulders with Maya Angelou, Shirley Jackson and Virginia Woolf.

A woman emerged from the back holding a large sheet of Bristol board, her strawberry-blonde hair pulled up in a high ponytail, splashes of black paint on her denim overalls. Her bare feet slapped on the tiles, soles dirty, nails painted green.

She spoke with a thin paintbrush held between her teeth. "Just one more thing." If she recognized him, she didn't show it.

She spun the board around. Painted on it were the words CLOSING SALE EVERYTHING MUST GO! She held it up against the window and glanced back over her shoulder. The sun shone in her hair and suddenly Martin was five years old again, chasing her through a farmer's field.

"Hold this?"

Martin hurried over and reached past her to hold the sign against the glass. She smelled of patchouli and citrus and fresh sweat as she slipped by to the counter, grabbed a roll of scotch tape and brought it back to where he stood.