Jo looked with disgust at the gun in her hand. She looked at Imogen, then back at the gun. She double-checked the safety, then put it in her jacket pocket as best as she could. She got out her phone and began typing at a rapid pace. She shook her head a couple of times but kept searching. She clicked with her thumb a couple of times, then held the phone up to her ear. “Yes, hello, is this the Naperville Police? Great. I’d like to schedule a time to drop off a gun for surrender. No, it hasn’t been used in any crimes that I am aware of. No, it’s not mine. Yes. Can I come by after I get off work today? Will someone be there late? I don’t get off until nine. Okay. Yes. Okay. Sure. Thank you so much.”

Jo clicked off her phone. “Good news, I can get rid of the gun. Especially since it’s not mine and I want to stick it to that asshole. How dare he keep a gun, unlocked and loaded, on the premises where minors work. How dare he.”

“Okay, Jo, you’re starting to scare me.” Imogen was registering the fury in Jo’s eyes, the vibrating rage in her voice.

Jo took a deep breath. “Just … go help out on the floor. I have to find a place to stash this where no one else will be able to find it.”

Imogen didn’t need to be told twice. She grabbed a cart full of books and fled the sight of the counter.

Imogen was reshelving some cookbooks when she heard a voice from behind her.

“Do you read much prose, habibti?” Madame Auntie was standing in the stack. Her posture was ramrod straight as usual, but her head was at a tilt, making her entire body look like a question.

Imogen stared for a moment. “Sometimes? I didn’t realize you were still here.”

Madame Auntie waved her hands around, as though she could merely wave away Imogen’s question. And, honestly, she kind of did. “You read poetry, eh?”

“Yes.” Imogen’s words dragged out now. Had less of a direct question and more of a general wondering as to where any of this could possibly be going. “I mean, my mother gave me a lot of poetry to read as a kid. So I just got used to it. But I do read prose. You can’t really make it through high school without prose.”

Madame Auntie raised a single eyebrow. It felt like an accusation.

“At least, here, you can’t,” said Imogen, feeling the need to amend her statement.

“Believe me, child. You can go quite far in life without reading prose.” Madame Auntie put her hand on her hip like she’d scored a point.

Imogen nodded. There was clearly no arguing with the woman. “All right. Is there something you’d like me to do?”