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on any makeup. Not that she had any interest in Harvey, who was rotund and married, anyway. But she responded the way a reclusive woman responded to any approaching stranger—by becoming self-conscious. She became awareof the dust in the shop, its dimness and mustiness. She looked around at the mess of boxes, the carousels crowded with dresses and shirts, the checkout counter and cash register, the stack of credit card slips still wrapped in plastic, the shelf units that needed to be rearranged, and she suddenly felt overwhelmed. How would she ever organize this place?
    As Harvey stepped inside, his face sober, she thought she saw a small shadow dart in after him, but she couldn’t be sure.

Chapter Six
    Kitty
    As I slip in past the rotund man, the spirits seep in around me—through wood and stucco, concrete and glass. Their longing and sadness, hope and worry hover in the dusty air. The woman’s former mate is still here, as well—the dark, shapeless ghost of a man who can’t let go.
    I hide beneath a rack of dresses, belly to the floor, the smells hitting me full force. Smoke and sweat and dead human skin, barely masked by laundry detergent. Mice, insects, a touch of moss. Perfume, tobacco, tears. The bitterness of an orange peel.
    I hear a crow landing on the roof, its talons scratching at the shingles; the soft rumble of a furnace, creaks in the walls, and memories of trees inside the floor. Each plank once belonged to a majestic oak, its past imprinted in the wood.
    But the sad woman and the rotund man are only dimly unaware of the many layers of reality, of the mingling of the living and the dead. Of what they bring in with them.
    From here, I’ve got a view of the rotund man’s black boots and the sad woman’s gray running shoes. I have a strong urge to unravel her laces, but I refrain.
    “Morning, Lily,” the man says in a thick voice, as if he needs to cough up a hairball.
    “What are you doing here on a Saturday? Don’t you take weekends off?” Lily pretends to straighten a dress. I can tell when people are pretending. They fidget a lot but accomplish nothing. If I had hands, I wouldn’t waste them.
    “Accountants don’t take many holidays in this economy.” The man takes off his raincoat and hangs it on a hook by the door. Raindrops are dripping all over the mat, which reminds me: I’m thirsty. I didn’t see any good puddles outside.
    “I’m sorry,” Lily says, although by her tone I can tell she’s not sorry at all. People do that—they lie. “It’s just—I wasn’t expecting you.”
    “I should’ve called.” He shuffles over, disturbing a sparkly dress on the way, and sets his briefcase on the countertop. He’s pigeon-toed, a term people use to describe walking with their feet turned inward. But I think of a pigeon, which reminds me that I’m hungry.
    I move over between two gowns, where I get a better view of Lily and the man. He pulls a handkerchief from his pocket, wipes his forehead. “You still don’t have any place to sit.” He looks around the shop.
    “Chairs encourage people to linger,” Lily says.
    “Isn’t that what you want?”
    “I want them to buy what they need and leave. I’m not much for trivial conversation.”
    “Whatever you say.” The man snaps open the briefcase and brings out a file folder. Lily peers at what he’s showing her—paper with cryptic writing on it—and her right foot taps the floor. I never understood the power of writing to change a person’s mood, but I love the smoothness of paper, a perfect surface on which to sit.
    “I’m afraid you may need a second loan to meet your expenses,” the man says. “I wish I could give you better news—”
    “It’s all right.” Her foot taps faster. Her sad heartbeat quickens. “I’ll make do with what I have.”
    The man clears his throat. “You’ll have to work hardto make a profit.” He takes off his glasses, which have steamed up, and wipes them on his sleeve. He looks turtle-like