Page 43 of Just One Little Bargain

His watering can tilts, water dribbling onto his shoes while he stares at me.

“New friend?”

“No,” says Evie.

“Hi, I’m Milo.”

Bill nods and goes back to drowning his petunias, his gaze tracking us until he remembers the flowers.

“You just told that man we’re not friends,” I say.

“We’re not.”

“What are we, then?”

She doesn’t answer. A strand of honey-brown hair has slipped from her ponytail and curls against her neck, right above the collar of her cardigan. I drag my attention away because the urge to tuck it back is strong enough that I nearly reach for it.

In the space of two blocks, nine separate people greet Evie by name. Every one performs the same choreography: a bright smile for her, a slow pan to me, raised brows, and a look that screams I will be discussing this at length over my next cup of coffee. Evie navigates it all without stopping.

A kid on a scooter zips past, nearly clipping my ankle, and shouts, “Sorry!” over his shoulder without looking back. His mother, three paces behind with a coffee in each hand, mouths an apology at me, does a visible double-take at the sight of me next to Evie, and almost walks into a lamppost.

“Does everyone around here monitor your movements?”

“No.” She steps past a golden retriever tied to a bike rack. “Just the ones who are awake.”

In Hell, recognition means you’ve either succeeded spectacularly or failed publicly. There’s no middle ground where people simply know you and are glad you exist. Evie has that. Has it so thoroughly she’s bored by it. She moves through it with the minimum viable engagement required, rationing her warmth out in efficient nods, unaware that what she treats as routine obligation is something entire species go without.

The smell of beeswax and old paper drifts from the antique shop, mingling with fresh-cut cedar from the lumber display outside the hardware store. A hand-painted mural on the brick wall depicts the river in fall, leaves scattering into the water in strokes of burnt orange and gold so vivid I swear I can hear the current.

Everything’s saturated with detail and cared for. I want to stop at every window and press my face to the glass.

Evie’s eyes narrow at me as I crane my neck to peer into the bakery, where a woman with flour-dusted forearms arranges pastries on tiered stands.

“You’re gawking,” Evie says, tugging her cardigan tighter around her waist.

“I’m appreciating,” I counter, inhaling the scent of butter and sugar that wafts through the cracked door.

“You look like a tourist.”

“I am a tourist.”

The market sits off the main stretch of shops, a barn-conversion with rough-cut timber framing and wide, double doors thrown open. Crates of produce crowd the entrance: squash, late tomatoes, bundles of greens with roots still attached. Hand-lettered chalkboard signs list the farms that supplied this week’s stock. A woman with soil under her fingernails rearranges apples into a careful pyramid near the entrance, glancing up with mild curiosity when we approach.

Evie grabs a wire basket from the stack by the door and shoves it into my hands without breaking stride. Her fingers brush against mine, and the constant pull in my chest eases. The tether has been a fist around my sternum since I materialized, and now it unclenches.

“You carry. I pick.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Don’t call me ma’am.”

“Yes, Evie.”

She studies me like a stain she’s decided isn’t worth scrubbing right now, but the corner of her mouth twitches.

I’m fine with it. I can be a cart, a dolly, a pack animal, whatever she needs. I’m going to be so aggressively helpful she can’t tell me to get lost without looking unreasonable.

The interior opens into honeyed wood and natural light pouring through tall clerestory windows, catching dust motes in lazy spirals. Bins of produce fill the center of the space, arranged by type, all of it labeled in the same careful chalk lettering. Shelves of preserves line one wall, their glass jars glinting. Refrigerated cases along the back hold dairy and meat. Bread loaves line a wooden rack, their crusts rough and uneven, clearly shaped by hand and still breathing out a faint yeasty sweetness.