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leather.”
    “Yeah.”
    I mean, it’s nothing sinister, but it’s weird, right?
    And before I left for work, she hinted that since I work at a bookstore, maybe I could borrow some magazines for her to read, the celebrity gossip kind, then I could return them tomorrow.
    “It’s not a library.” I sat on the bottom stair, lacing my boots.
    “I wouldn’t wrinkle the pages.”
    “We do have a library about a mile away,” Mom said. “It’s closed for the holiday, but we can go tomorrow, on our way back from the doctor.”
    Mandy shut up about the magazines after that and started in on Mom with special grocery requests. All stuff we never eat, like kids’ cereal and frozen lasagna and snack mix. I watched Mom’s face as Mandy rattled off her list. Mom just kept smiling. I’m dying to see, when I get home, if Mom is so eager to please Mandy that she violated her deeply held whole-food principles.
    Now I put on my coat and remind myself to stop fixating on Mandy. Ultimately it’s not about her but the baby. The baby and Mom. And I guess I fit somewhere in that scenario, too.
    Outside, in the retail development where Margins is an anchor store, the chill is startling. It’s at least twenty degrees colder than it was at the train station this morning. I lock the doors behind me quickly, wishing I’d brought gloves. There might be a pair in my messenger bag, but it’s too dark and deserted to be standing around digging in my bag like a perfect target, asking to be bludgeoned. Dad signed me up for self-defense when a serial rapist was on the loose in downtown Denver, and not only did he go with me every Saturday for six weeks, he participated in the class by volunteering to be repeatedly kneed in the nuts by a bunch of outraged women. He wore padding, of course, but still.
    The instructor never failed to remind us to be aware of our surroundings. So when a guy approaches from what seems like out of nowhere, my muscles are already tensing.
    “Aren’t you open ten more minutes?”
    I relax a little. It figures that the one night I close early, we have a late customer. His face is in shadow, but he seems young, and he’s tall, dressed in a suit that I can’t imagine is keeping him warm without an overcoat.
    “Usually, yes.” I apologize and suggest he come back tomorrow, hoping he’s in a good mood, because closing early is definitely a serious offense.
    When I start moving away from the door, he stays close. I unrelax. One thing we learned in the self-defense class is to trust your instincts, and my instincts tell me this is creepy. There’s no one else around. I think about my keys in my hand and how I can use the big store key to gouge out an eye if I have to. As cold as it is, sweat prickles under my arms.
    I start walking toward my car, which is also toward him. If he follows, I’ll know something is up. With my keys in hand, I take a few purposeful steps his way.
    He puts out his arm to stop me. “Oh, um, I need to search your bag? I’m R.J. Desai? From Corp—”
    But the second his hand touches my shoulder, my reflexes kick in and I throw an elbow strike to his face, the forces of fear and adrenaline behind it. He drops without a word, stunned.
    Wow. That completely worked. A hundred elbow strikes to a punching bag, my dad standing behind it to hold it still, are apparently engraved in my muscle memory even after a year. The next thing you’re supposed to do is either (A) run like hell or (B) try to do a little more damage while he’s still vulnerable. Since I’m a slow runner and he’s already getting to his feet, I mentally prepare to go for the groin and the eyes.
    But when he’s up, he backs away, holding his face. “Why’d you do that?”
    It could be a diversionary tactic. I stay in my defense position, feet apart and knees slightly bent. We’re both breathing hard. I stare him in the eyes and don’t see a trace of a threat, only pain and bewilderment. Also? He looks a tiny bit familiar.