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quantities of stuff in the store.
    â€œIt’s us,” Callie responded.
    Louise emerged from behind a mannequin, wearing a big faux-fur vest and vintage bell-bottoms, like some kind of urban hippie, her skin so black she could have been carved from a block of onyx. I’d forgotten how tall she was—I’m almost six feet, and she towered above me, her bright pink platform shoes no doubt adding a couple of inches to her height, but still. Her tank top revealed arms that could have given Officer Marciano’s a run for his money, and I made a mental note never to piss off Louise.
    â€œWell,” Louise said when she saw us, crossing her arms over her chest and looking us up and down.
    â€œHi,” Callie said.
    â€œHi,” I echoed lamely.
    â€œI’m in the back,” Nia called out.
    Louise didn’t indicate that it was okay for us to move farther into the store, but she didn’t try to stop us, either. Callie took a hesitant step forward and I did the same, and then we were snaking our way through caverns of precariously piled boxes as we headed in the direction of Nia’s voice.
    At the back, the space opened up a little and there, sitting on the floor next to a coatrack, was Nia, holding a pair of sparkly red shoes. She looked up at us, her face tight with sadness and fear.
    â€œIt’s all here. All her stuff.”
    Callie and I looked at the rack of coats, dresses, suits, and shawls packed together so tightly it was hard to see where one item of clothing ended and another began. The top was piled high with hats and wigs.
    â€œMy god,” Callie whispered. She stepped forward and touched the sleeve of a black jacket so gently it was as if she thought it might be a mirage.
    I cleared my throat. There was a pale green dress at the end of the rack closest to me that looked a lot like the one Amanda had worn that morning when she’d met me in the woods. “Um, are you . . . I mean, I know you know more about this kind of thing than I do, but are you guys sure this is her stuff?” It wasn’t that the dress wasn’t the one Amanda had been wearing that day, but that didn’t mean it was .
    Maybe emboldened by the fact that the sleeve hadn’t dissolved into thin air when she touched it, Callie reached more surely into the rack, pulling out a plain gray dress. As soon as she saw it, Nia gasped. Callie turned to me, holding the dress against her.
    â€œEven you must recognize this one, Hal. It’s what she wore her first day of school.”
    â€œH al Bennett, Amanda Valentino. Amanda Valentino, Hal Bennett.”
    It was the end of English class; Mrs. Kimble gestured from me to Amanda and back again, and Amanda extended her hand in my direction. I wasn’t used to shaking hands with people who weren’t friends of my parents, but I took hers. Her handshake was firm and confident, and I found myself hoping mine was, too.
    â€œHow do you do?” asked Amanda.
    â€œUm, I do fine?” I’d meant to be funny, but I realized too late that my answer made me sound like either a loser or an ass.
    Or, conveniently, both.
    â€œHow do you do?” I asked quickly.
    My question was a throwaway line, but Amanda paused, seeming to consider it. “I’d have to say sunny, but with a chance of showers.”
    Mrs. Kimble giggled nervously. Under the best of circumstances she was hardly an island of calm, but Amanda’s arrival had made her even more fidgety than usual. After Amanda pointed out that a quote Mrs. Kimble attributed to F. Scott Fitzgerald was actually something Ernest Hemingway had said about Fitzgerald, Mrs. Kimble never recovered. Twice she’d confused literal and figurative, and each time she vaguely maniacally laughed. I had the feeling she was running the words leave of absence through her otherwise empty head.
    â€œWell, Amelia . . .”
    â€œAmanda,” Amanda corrected her.
    Giggle. “Didn’t I