But, of course, Little Miss Perfect couldn’t just leave it at that. No, she was committed to rooting out uncomfortable truths. “Are you sure? I just know that Daniella can be, well—not always kind. And. I just thought I’d ask.”

“You’ve asked,” said Imogen.

“Oh,” said Little Miss Perfect. The crease between her forehead fell along with her expression. “Did she say anything? When you were in the office, I mean.”

Was that a trick question? “She said lots of things. Most of them not worth repeating.”

But Little Miss Perfect was only half listening. Not like her at all, if Imogen thought about it. “But did she say anything else?”

“About what?” asked Imogen.

“About the store closing or about the numbers being fine after she checked them?”

Imogen stared for a full minute. She couldn’t quite find the words. Eventually, she went with, “What?”

“Oh no, she didn’t mention it. Look, I’m sure it’s nothing. Daniella thought the store was closing. So she went to go check the numbers. I just thought, if she called you in, it’s probably fine, right?”

Everything was so far from fine that Imogen did the only thing she could think of in the circumstance. She turned around and fled.

Imogen went to the side door by the manga section and kicked it open. She slapped at her neck, knowing a mosquito bite was imminent. Then Imogen pulled out her phone. She’d tucked it into her boots, all the better to hide it from Jo, who would confiscate their phones if she caught them on one during work.

It was the only way that being at work was worse than being at school.

Imogen opened up her feed and began scrolling. It was a compilation—friends and bands and a few robotics and history accounts. Oh, and the poetry accounts. Against her will, really, Imogen had inherited that from her mother—her love of verse.

Imogen devoured it all.

The newfangled stuff, the sketches and drawings. The empowered women of color. The sad faces with blackout text. The self-care poetry. The reposts of Mary Oliver quotes over stock photos and memes. But Imogen’s favorite was anachronisticblonde. She did little doodles, like the new stuff, but she mostly did sonnets and odes and fragments of what could be a compiled epic. She wasn’t the biggest or the most influential account that Imogen followed by a long shot, but there was something so raw and real about her work that Imogen thought it was only a matter of time before her account blew up.

The latest poem was at the top of her feed—In truth the sun does not rise—that was what Imogen needed. She felt it, down to her bones. Imogen hovered on that image, never liking anachronisticblonde’s poems but always stopping to read. The algorithm must have known this about Imogen—that she was a grade A lurker.