Imogen watched as Eli’s whole body went rigid.

Something wasn’t right.

“Cool. Cool. I’ll just go. Yeah. I’ll go check that out. Now.” And then Eli disappeared around the corner from the stacks he had just been hiding in.

Imogen rubbed at her neck, thinking to brush away the hair there. But then she remembered she didn’t have any hair anymore. That feeling was a phantom, a trace of what had been before. She rubbed her palm over the top of her head again, still in wonder at herself.

She’d shaved her head.

Somehow she’d nearly forgotten. Cool Girl might yell and screech and make fun, but there had been something about fighting with her that had distracted Imogen from the actual hell storm that she had created in the store not an hour ago. That moment when everyone had stopped and stared at her. Even Little Miss Perfect didn’t have the right thing to say or a smile for the occasion. Instead, she’d had the expression of a goldfish—mouth dropped and eyes wide. Not a smile in sight.

“Now that’s a haircut,” said a voice from behind Imogen.

She turned. It was Charlene. She was one of the regulars at Wild Nights. She was an ex-zoologist and both her arms were covered in sleeves of tattoos. Animal tattoos, of course. She had retired early in her middle age and was usually in the bookstore for feminist theory or social history. Or both.

Imogen shrugged. “Felt like a change.”

Charlene smiled, like she was more than willing to participate in the charade. “Oh, sure. Must be nice during the summer. Keeps the hair off your neck.”

“Exactly,” said Imogen, with a decisive nod.

“Kid?” said Charlene.

“Yeah?”

“Be careful,” said Charlene, dropping her friendly front for a moment and letting true concern flash through her features. But the expression was gone just as quickly as it had appeared.

“Yeah.” Imogen cleared her throat. “What do you need today, Ms. Charlene?”

A smile pulled at one side of Charlene’s mouth. “I’ve been looking for this book I read about. Daughters of the Sun. Supposedly it’s a take on Mughal history from the perspective of the women.”

“Very cool,” said Imogen. And she meant it, too. Feminist revisionist history wasn’t exactly something she sought out on her own, but she loved getting the highlights from people like Charlene. No reader could specialize in every genre. That’s what Imogen loved so much about Wild Nights—that everyone was into their own thing and everyone could potentially find what they were looking for. It wasn’t a guarantee, of course. But that they all could look and that they all could hope for themselves in the same space was what made bookstores so magic. “How was the last one?”