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“What makes you ask? You’ve been here for a literal half second.”

“Your braid’s unravelling, your cardigan’s inside out, and you’ve got the pallor of a Victorian child dying of consumption.”

Molly leaned back in her chair, eyes now locked on the two cups of coffee in Justine’s grip. “I’ll have you know, I am not, in fact, hungover. I’m just having a slow start to the week. Also, is that for me?” She inclined her head at the coffee, trying to keep the plea from her voice.

“Obviously.” Justine rolled her eyes, making herself at home on the other side of Molly’s desk, clearing space for her laptop and dragging a chair up.

She produced a water bottle out of seemingly nowhere and set it next to Molly’s coffee, then said, “Hydrate while you caffeinate. They aren’t one and the same. We have a lot to get through. Today’s the day I’m giving you the rest of your job back.”

A lot was something of an understatement. The training wheels were officially off. Despite enjoying her transition time working as a bookseller, Molly was exhilarated by the thought of finally feeling responsible for more, things like strategy and community outreach. These were things that felt familiar, like her.

“That’s your youth trends spreadsheet,” Justine said, commandeering Molly’s laptop for the umpteenth time in the last hour. “Ah, and these sheets are broken down by children’s, middle grade, and young adult. I think you have an adult version divided by genre somewhere, but your organizational system is indecipherable.”

“Can this information not be automated? By our sales system or something?” Molly asked, opening a folder nested several layers deep that revealed what looked like twenty more spreadsheets.

Justine snorted. “It is. I paid a man halfway across the world to write several macros that pull and organize from our point-of-sale data. A worthwhile investment too. It cut your average working hours in half. But apparently you like making notes so . . .” She waved her hand at Molly’s laptop. “You do whatever you do, I do the rest, and Eli funded us. That’s more or less how this works.”

One cup of coffee turned into two, then three, then takeout for lunch, then an unsuccessful visit from Eli, who Justine simply told to “Get the fuck out, we’re working.”

“This is the portal for our P and L, the supply system—that kind of stuff. Key holder IPD files too, I think.”

“Uh-huh.” Molly had lost track of the acronyms Justine kept throwing around so effortlessly. Evidently, Molly had become an actual business owner in the last six years.

As what was technically meant to be the end of their workday came and went, Molly’s excitement had shifted to full-blown overwhelm. She hadn’t felt the absence of her missing six years this acutely since she first woke to bright lights and Dr. Macmillan’s voice. The skills and knowledge she’d lost were glaringly obvious. She had mountains of catch-up and relearning to scale before she’d get her arms around everything.

All the while, Justine hadn’t looked at the time once. It was genuinely impressive, the way she’d simply sat down that morning and unleashed an unrelenting focus for the last eight hours.

“And this is the maintenance log.” Justine scrolled through the outstanding list of issues. “Doorknob is broken again. Someone keeps flushing feminine hygiene products. We’ve had a plumber out here once a week for the last two months; it’s got to be an employee. Tablet two is cracked, love that for our P and L. Ah—safe battery is going, apparently. Should probably prioritize that one—”

“Justine?”

“Hmm?” Justine glanced up and stopped typing. “Oh, I see. You’re looking consumptive again.”

“Feeling it too,” Molly admitted.

Justine closed her laptop. “Right. Too much?”

Molly’s dignity couldn’t stomach the genuine concern lingering behind Justine’s eyes.

She could do this. She could. It was just a lot to digest all at once, and she was beginning to feel a bit overfull. Gorged on the business acumen of book sales.

“I’d just . . . like some time to really dig in to all this, I think. Especially all the outstanding outreach projects, if that’s alright.”

Justine’s head tilted. “Of course.” She finally checked the time on her phone. “I have a dinner date to get to anyway. We covered all the basics, just let me know if you have questions about any of it.”

Adrenaline made quick work of Molly’s nervous system at the thought of an entire day’s worth of orientation being the basics.

To her surprise, Justine lingered, taking her time gathering her things. Eventually, she cleared her throat.

“This was nice. I’ve missed working with you.” She cleared her throat again, as if banishing the concept of vulnerability from Molly’s small office. “Plus, your spreadsheets are a nightmare. It’ll be a blessing to never touch them again.”

Analysis paralysis was the phrase for it.

She’d meant to go home after Justine left, but she couldn’t seem to power her legs to stand. Couldn’t lift her hand from her laptop’s touchpad. Couldn’t tear her focus from the dozens upon dozens of files and folders staring out at her from a computer screen.

She couldn’t pick a place to start. The outreach projects seemed like the most logical option. Those were the things that called to her, little digital siren songs. But it didn’t feel right to indulge in the things that excited her when her baseline understanding of the business stood on shaky stilts.

Her chest felt strangely hollow, an empty pit pumping adrenaline at what she suspected to be a medically alarming rate. She hadn’t felt this kind of anxiety since she was in college, prepping for every exam like her life depended on it.