I glance back up at the new kid, who is still standing awkwardly near the entrance. He’s fairly unremarkable as far as new kids go, and I would know—I’ve met about a trillion in the three years we’ve lived with Vera. I swear to god, she collects wayward kids the way some people collect baseball cards. They come in and out of the shop, barely buying anything, but she lets them hang around anyway—feeding them, talking to them, giving them a safe space to be. My mom calls them strays, but Vera doesn’t like that. I asked her about it once, and she said someone did that for her too when she was young and needed it, and she’s just paying it forward. Which is great, honestly, but I don’t see why I need to be a part of the welcome wagon.

I grab another snack out of the candy bowl on the counter—I take the peanut butter cups, always; Vera can keep the Skittles—while still keeping an eye on the new kid. He’s cute-ish, I guess, with his little lost expression on his face, and he’s rocking some bright white Vans that I don’t hate. I guess cute-ish boys in rad sneakers is a theme now for me or something, not that I’m complaining.

I looked at his pull list before he got here, even though I felt guilty about it because Vera says that’s like looking into someone’s soul. It was pretty good, maybe a little clinical, a little trying too hard. Objectively, they’re all good titles, but collectively it doesn’t feel cohesive. Pull lists have a style usually, a vibe. Like, even if it’s a mix of indie and mainstream, and most of them are, you’ll see themes and patterns emerge. If somebody shuffled all the comics in the pull boxes together, I’d probably still be able to easily sort out which ones belonged to our regulars. But this kid is all over the map. His pull list has taste but no heart.

It’s like the difference between my audition rep and the music I’d put on a recital program. My audition requirements are strict: two excerpts, a Bach suite, a romantic concerto, and a twentieth-century solo work. It’s curated to show off my technique, my musicality, and my range across all different periods—but it doesn’t flow. If it were up to me, I’d just play all the Beethoven sonatas and call it a day.

I lean against the counter and sigh. He’s moved from the door finally, but he’s been staring at the wire rack near the new-release wall for too long now. I don’t even think he sees it. I mean, it’s the kids’ rack. How long can one person really spend looking at the newest DuckTales cover?