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I end up breaking all kinds of rules by giving him my employee discount and pretending that the coupon miraculously worked. He didn’t notice the difference, and it got him out of my line and out of the store, so I think I made the right call, although I’ll probably worry for the next month that Marla will notice and fire me for it. That’s a problem for another time.

By 9:00, my feet ache through the thin soles of my shoes. By 10:00, my shoulders burn with fatigue.

By 10:30, I’m so tired that the overhead lights seem brighter than they are, every white aisle bleeding fuzzily into the next.

But I don’t have another panic attack, no jars are dropped, no black sedans are idling in my view, and no older men in dark coats walk in and make my heart stop.

I feel almost normal. It helps that the constant busywork keeps my thoughts at bay.

During the last hour, as I wipe down the register belts and return abandoned items to the shelves, I think about the sketch I started last night.

I never finished the sleeve because something about the cuff was bothering me, but now I realize the problem. It was too stiff. It needs to be softer—maybe gathered organza, something translucent enough that the wrist shows through, with tiny covered buttons all the way up the forearm.

Thinking about the sleeve leads me to thinking about the bodice, and I decide I want it to be structured. Not corseted, exactly, but something inspired by it, something gentler.

I’ll use pearl-gray silk—no, pale pink—no, maybe blue? A powder blue could be nice.

Dad always liked blue on me.

My chest aches, but not unpleasantly this time. It’s that warm ache that sometimes comes with memories of him. An ache for a different time.

I picture the model. Long blond hair, a narrow waist, and delicate hands with long fingers.

Maybe a crown.

I almost laugh at myself.

Princess Kammie.

I haven’t thought about that name in a while.

It lives in the little space inside me where Dad still exists, where I’m small enough to climb into his lap, and he pretends I’m too heavy even though he lifts me easily.

Where pink nail polish is just pink nail polish, and where nobody cares that I want things to be pretty.

Where nobody hurts me for being born this way.

I think I’ll finish that design when I get home. I think I will add a crown. Something that belongs in a fantasy movie.

The idea becomes a little reward waiting at the end of the night.

I just need to get through closing, the bus, arriving home, taking a shower, and then I’ll have all night to sketch whatever I want.

One thing at a time.

At 11:29, Marla finally locks the doors, and at 11:45, I clock out.

She makes us leave in pairs because the parking lot is mostly empty after closing and not as well lit as it needs to be. Usually I think it’s unnecessary, but tonight, I’m grateful for it.

Michelle walks with me toward the bus stop before splitting off toward her car.

“You good?” she asks, her breath making little clouds in the cold.

“Yeah.”

“You sure?”

Everybody asks me that now. It’s in their eyes when they look at me, like I might shatter.