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I folded the note and set it beside the cash drawer.

Twin/Tone had been calling more often lately. Peter Jesperson had come through Madison in July, spent an hour in the store, and talked about college radio, independent distribution, Minneapolis bands, and all the ways a place like Side A could become something bigger. He’d asked whether I’d ever thought about expanding. I’d told him I thought about paying the bills.

He’d laughed, but then asked whether I’d ever thought about leaving Madison, and that question had stayed with me longer than I wanted it to.

Side A was mine along with the building. Owning it mattered. Every bin, every used copy of Born to Run, every cassette, every kid who came in asking what to buy after hearing the Replacements for the first time. I’d wanted a record store since I was sixteen and bought my first Springsteen record with lawn-mowing money from a guy at a flea market who told me vinyl was dying.

People had been saying records were dying for years. People said a lot of things when they didn’t know how to listen.

I cleaned the demo turntable with the orange cloth and glanced at the clock on the wall.

Lorrie hadn’t been in for almost two weeks. Before that, she hadn’t missed a Saturday since March, when she walked in wearing white Keds, jeans, and a sweater that looked too expensive for a woman flipping through Hüsker Dü.

I’d rung her up and watched her look past me at the HELP WANTED sign taped to the front window.

“You hiring?”

“Depends who’s asking.”

“Someone who knows the alphabet and can make change.”

“That puts you ahead of Brian.”

“I heard that,” Brian called from the back.

“No, you didn’t,” I said, laughing.

By May, she had her own coffee mug behind the counter, a preferred pricing gun, and opinions about the Springsteen display that were mostly right and usually delivered while pretending she didn’t care whether I agreed.

She knew Otis wouldn’t take his medicine unless it was hidden in ham, knew the middle drawer stuck unless you lifted it first, and knew which customers stole cassettes and which customers always paid full price.

Then I’d heard the name Paul Ellsworth a few times when her friends came in. By June, there were dinners and phone calls at the store, and by July Lorrie was taking fewer shifts and leaving early when she did come in.

I’d called once. Her mom answered and told me that Lorrie was out with Paul. She’d made his name sound like something had already been settled so I didn’t call again.

The bell over the door rang, and Otis lifted his head. I’d just changed the record to John Waite, Missing You when Lorrie walked in.

Her hair was down, loose around her shoulders, damp at the ends. She wore cutoffs, flip-flops, and an old James Taylor shirt I’d remembered her saying belonged to her father. She had a purse hooked over one shoulder and a folded paper napkin in her hand.

For a second, she didn’t look at me, stopping and looking around the store as if seeing it for the first time. Something moved across her face. Relief, maybe, though that didn’t make sense. Side A was exactly where she’d left it. Smaller than whatever waited for her out in Maple Bluff, messier, with worse coffee and a dog who ate receipts, but the store was still here.

I hated how much I wanted to be included in that look.

“Hey,” I said.

Her eyes met mine. “Hey, Dean.”

“Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“I know.” She stepped inside and let the door close behind her. “I’m sorry.”

Lorrie apologized for knocking over displays, insulting a customer’s taste after the customer left, and once for spilling coffee on a stack of promo flyers. She didn’t usually apologize for disappearing.

“For what?” I asked.

“For not calling and leaving you short-handed.”

I glanced at Otis. “He’s been useless.”