“That bird is not my uncle,” said Maren. She’d done her braids just like Lishta’s today, except that one of hers was pink and the other green. At four-foot-eleven, Maren was one braid-width taller than her grandmother.

“Given that I adopted him long before you were born,” said Lishta, “that technically makes him your uncle.” With a cheeky wink, she hurried around the counter and pulled Maren into a hug. Her clothes smelled like lemons, and her body was frail and small-boned, as if she might be the one related to birds. “How are you, my sweet child?”

“Not great,” said Maren. “I couldn’t find the perfect present for Hallie.”

The lines in Lishta’s forehead deepened as she sighed. “You’ve still got time, dear. When she wakes up, you’ll have found the perfect thing.”

Maren bit the inside of her cheek. She wanted Hallie to wake up now, and failing that, she wanted to find the perfect present now. “How was Connecticut?”

Lishta sprang back behind the counter where she rummaged, elbow-deep, in an enormous carpeted bag. “Marvelous. Just look at all the ingredients I found.” She began pulling objects out and setting them on the counter. Broken crusts of cement; a handful of tiny flags on toothpicks; stoppered vials of various liquids; a tuft of sheep’s fleece with twigs tangled in it. Maren tugged on the rolling ladder, which let out a rusty squeak as it trundled along the floor. Henri shuffled and flapped but maintained his perch at the top.

“One-oh-seven,” said Lishta, opening a tube of lipstick and scooping out its fuchsia insides. Maren climbed halfway up the ladder and retrieved a purple hatbox with the number 107 stenciled onto its side. She passed it down to Lishta, who dropped the empty tube of lipstick inside and slid the lid back on. It still felt strange, working at the dream shop without Hallie or her mother. But her mother had switched from part-time to full-time at her office job to help cover Hallie’s medical bills and had no time to help at the shop anymore.

“What next?” said Maren.

Lost in contemplation, Lishta rubbed her thumb over the lid of a faded metal tin that had once held breath mints. Her lips moved silently.

“Gran-Gran?” Maren stepped onto the lowest rung of the ladder and shoved off, rumbling toward the old woman. Just before they collided, Maren hopped off. Lishta jolted and almost dropped the tin.

“What number?” said Maren, reaching for the silver box.

Lishta set the tin on the counter and pulled a hairpin from one of her braids. She stuck the pin between her teeth, set her hands on her hips, and stared at the tin as though expecting it to do something. Maren wasn’t sure what.

“What’s in there?” said Maren.

“Whispering dust,” said Lishta. “I’ve been searching for the stuff for years.”