At the top of the hill, the bus stopped and Maren leapt to the curb in front of the post office and Mr. Alfredo’s Splendid Salon, where everyone always got the perfect haircut. Avoiding the potholes and the puddles that smelled like motor oil and brine, she ducked into the alley between the two buildings.

At the end of the alley, beside a dry cleaner that was almost never open, sat a quiet little shop. The sign over the door said TYPEWRITERS in bold black letters. Tucked in the bottom corner of the window was a sign the size of a business card.

(and dreams), it said in faint cursive.

Fitting her wrought-iron key into the lock, Maren tugged and twisted and pushed. As the door swung open, she inhaled the wonderful scent of ink and paper and musty old machinery. People often stopped to poke their heads inside the shop just long enough to take a whiff of that comforting typewriter smell.

Once her eyes adjusted to the dimness, Maren threaded her way through the jumble of tables. Pastel-colored electric typewriters mingled with ancient manual contraptions whose keys tangled into an impossible clump if you typed on them too fast. In his usual spot beside a Remington Model 5 Streamline lay a gray cat. He opened one eye as Maren approached.

“Hello, Artax.” Maren scratched the cat behind his ear, then headed for the narrow door at the back of the room. To a first-time visitor, it would look like someplace only employees were supposed to go—or maybe a bathroom. As Maren turned the brass knob, a croaking screech burst out from the other side.

“GROSSE PATATE.”

Maren sighed. “Hello to you, too, Henri.”

The room was not, in fact, a storage closet or a bathroom but a space even larger than the typewriter showroom. Shelves and cupboards and drawers rose all the way up to the ceiling. They were crammed with bins and boxes, jars and beakers, measuring cups and spoons. In the corner an old-fashioned silver machine burbled and let out the occasional puff of steam. A rolling ladder had been pushed to one side of the shelves, and on its top rung perched a gray parrot with red tail feathers and a vicious gleam in its beady eyes.

“AVEC UNE FACE DE MARMOTTE.” It punctuated the statement with a terrible squawk and began preening its feathers.

“Henri, that’s no way to speak to your human-niece. She looks nothing like a potato or a marmot.” A wrinkly old face appeared from behind the counter in the center of the room. Maren beamed at her grandmother, Lishta, whose hair was the same shade of gray as the parrot’s feathers. Today, it was braided and pinned to the top of her head, and she wore a blue dress with an apron tied over it.