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Annalee a good manager, if not an expert on literature—she’s taught me how to do everything she does. “In case something happens to me,” she said once, matter-of-factly. “Like we’re robbed and I get shot.” The only thing I don’t know is how to get into the safe; I’ll just throw all the cash and paperwork into the drop for her to deal with in the morning.
    “Doing anything fun?” I ask. “Or not feeling well?”
    One corner of her mouth turns upward. “Don’t laugh.”
    “I won’t.” Though, it must be said that I would love to laugh. I would love to hear something funny right now—truly funny so I can laugh something other than the bitter “Life Is Unbelievably Shitty” laugh that’s become my standard.
    “There’s a Doctor Who marathon on tonight, and I forgot to set my DVR. I don’t want to miss it.”
    Now that’s funny. I laugh.
    “Jill!”
    “Sorry. I shouldn’t have promised.”
    “It’s the original ,” she says, defensive.
    “Enjoy.” Later, when she’s gone, I straighten up the display tables and endcaps, turn out the lights in the back way earlier than usual, and stay at the counter chatting with Ron, keeping my eyes on the doors in the hope Dylan will walk through. Then I remember I never sent the text.
    Two older ladies come in together and buy the latest City Read and a fifty-percent-off cat calendar.
    One of them points to the white fluff ball on the cover. “This one looks exactly like our Edgar.”
    “You should hang it where Edgar can see,” I say.
    “Oh, he passed.” She looks down as I slide the calendar into a bag.
    “Christmas Eve,” the other lady says, touching the first lady’s shoulder.
    Maybe they’re sisters. Maybe they’re friends. Maybe they’re life partners. Whichever, there is such real affection there, real tenderness, that the sight of them inflates that balloon a little bit more and presses against my heart so intensely that I put my hand to my chest in an attempt to mash it back down.
    “I’m so sorry.” Don’t let my scary-teenager hair and piercings fool you , I think. I know loss . “Have a nice night.”
    I lock the door behind them and tell Ron, who has to get home to his kid, to take off, I’m closing up.
    “Twenty-five minutes early?” he asks.
    “I won’t tell if you won’t.”
    Poor Ron. He’s in his thirties and started here about four months ago; it was the only job he could get after losing his actual career in the recession and winding up the oldest employee here, yet lowest on the totem pole. It’s grown on him, though, and it turns out he’s this incredible visionary when it comes to store displays. Last week he combined our bestselling sci-fi, fantasy, and graphic novels into one beautiful geek heaven.
    He leaves, and as I crank out the closing paperwork at lightning speed, the situation with Mandy reemerges to obsessive consciousness. Did I do enough to try to talk Mom out of it? I think I did. Yet the more I pointed out what a colossal disaster this could become, the more she turned into a brick wall. There was no one but me to attempt to break through. All my grandparents are dead, and so is my dad’s brother, and my Mom is an only child. She has friends, but she sort of shut them out when Dad died. Like I did with my friends. Only with her, it was about suddenly being “busy with work,” whereas I directly told my friends to leave me alone. My exact words might have been “Leave me the hell alone.”
    Mom and I, different as we are, are twin planets orbiting the same universe of grief but never quite making contact. Maybe this baby is a good thing and I’m just not seeing it. Maybe it’ll be a new little sun for us, or at least for Mom. Or maybe it will be a black hole that will suck us in and tear us to bits. Either way, we’re at the point of no return. Hello, event horizon.
    At home earlier, I caught Mandy sniffing the couch. When she realized I was watching her, she said, “Real