"Queuing?"
"Standing in line. Waiting your turn. Humans are very particular about it. You can't just barge to the front because you're bigger."
"I know that."
"Do you? Because I've had six complaints this month about orcs who 'didn't understand the system.'" He makes air quotes. They're sarcastic and pointed. "So let's review. You see a line. You join the back. You wait. You don't huff or sigh or make comments about how slow things are moving."
"Even if they are slow?"
"Especiallyif they are slow." He pushes off the desk.
2
LACY
The chai latte has gone cold. Again.
I thumb through the payment app on my phone, cross-referencing invoice numbers with deposit dates while the cursor blinks at me like it's judging my life choices. Which, honestly, fair.
Three prescription refills for Aunt Rene. One for blood pressure. One for cholesterol. One for the thing her doctor calls "just to be safe" but won't explain in detail because apparently medical transparency is optional after seventy.
The numbers don't add up the way I need them to.
I take a sip of cold tea. Grimace. Set it down on top of a stack of vintage mysteries that probably shouldn't be used as coasters but desperate times, desperate measures.
Ellis Books & Brews isn't technically open yet. Pop-up bookstore slash cafe is the generous term. Glorified folding tables and string lights in a rented storefront is the honest one.
But it's mine.
Six months since I walked away from the community library. Four months since I stopped answering my ex's texts. Two months since I filed the LLC paperwork and decidedthat reinventing myself at thirty-two was either brave or catastrophically stupid.
The jury's still out.
I shift a stack of paperbacks from the biography section to the impulse-buy table near the register. Tuck a hand-lettered sign between them.Staff Picks: Books That Made Us Cry (In a Good Way).
The front windows let in watery afternoon light. The kind that makes everything look softer than it is. I've hung curtains. Mismatched. One floral, one striped. Aunt Rene said they looked "eclectic." Which is aunt-code for "questionable but I love you anyway."
The espresso machine gurgles behind me. I haven't figured out how to make it stop doing that. YouTube tutorials have been unhelpful. The user manual is in three languages, none of which are English.
I'm considering percussive maintenance when the crash happens.
Not a polite crash. Not a "whoops I dropped my keys" crash.
A full-body, structural-integrity-threatening, what-the-hell-was-that crash.
The front awning shudders. Groans. Something large and wooden smashes through the striped curtain and lands in the middle of the street.
Books explode outward. Paperbacks flutter. Hardcovers thud against asphalt.
A woman shrieks. A man yells something I can't make out.
I'm already moving.
Phone down. Tea forgotten. The door swings open under my hand and I'm outside, staring at the wreckage.
A crate. Massive. Splintered along one side. The kind you'd use to transport furniture or small livestock or, apparently, someone's entire personal library.
And standing next to it, looking like a natural disaster in a coat two sizes too small, is an orc.
