Maybe Ms. Malo’s plum-colored mouth flattened like a snake’s as she slid the phone back into her bag. “I want a dozen nightmares,” she said, and the ice in her voice made Maren shiver. “I want the worst dreams you’ve ever made. Those last three didn’t quite cut it.”

Maren gulped hard. “We have all kinds of nightmares. If you just come to the shop tomorrow, I can—”

“Do I look like an idiot?” The woman ground her heel into Maren’s T-shirt, tearing a hole through to the pavement. “You’ll bring me those dreams tomorrow, and you won’t breathe a word to Gran-Gran or I’ll tell her you’ve been messing with your poor sister’s brain.”

Maren wanted to shove the woman, kick her in the shin, push her into a dumpster. But she was trapped, and the woman knew it. “Why do you want so many?” she said. “You can just buy them three at a time. Nobody needs more than three nightmares a night.”

Maybe Ms. Malo scoffed. “I’ve got a rather…hearty appetite for them.”

Maren couldn’t imagine the effects of taking so many nightmares at once. That kind of terror could really change a person. Maybe it already had. Maybe they weren’t all for her. Maren’s skin went clammy.

The hospital doors whooshed open, and a boy in a blue soccer jersey came out.

“Amos!” Maren shouted, waving both arms and wishing she could stand up.

Amos looked startled by her sudden outburst of friendliness, but he veered toward them. The pointy-toed shoe lifted from the edge of Maren’s T-shirt, and she sagged with relief.

“Tomorrow. Here. Same time.” The woman dropped her bouquet of dead roses and stalked off.

Nine

“Who was that?” Amos picked up the withered remains of the rose bouquet from the pavement.

“A customer.” All of a sudden, the parking lot pitched and tipped and swirled with watercolor smears. Maren laid her head on her knees and prayed she wouldn’t throw up in front of Amos.

“She’s creepy,” he said, cramming the dead flowers into a nearby trash can.

“I know.” Slowly, the nausea eased as the click-clack of the woman’s heels faded. Maren looked up just in time to see her climb into a green sedan.

“What was she saying to you?” said Amos. “It looked like she was standing on your shirt.”

“She, uh, just wanted to talk to me about some stuff from the store.”

“Typewriters or dreams?”

“Does it matter?” Even though she felt bad about his grandfather, Maren didn’t want to talk to Amos any longer than necessary. He’d become friends with the one person who made Maren’s life a living nightmare, and when she had told Amos he had to choose between her and Curtis, Amos had chosen the bully.