I pull back quickly. Tuck the book against my chest, protective.
"You still destroyed my awning."
"I know." No excuses. No deflection.
"And probably scared off half my future customers."
"I know."
"And I have no idea who you are or why you were carrying a crate of books through downtown in the first place."
He straightens. Towers. Blocks out the sun again.
"Stone Venn. Cross-Cultural Placement Program. I'm assigned to Ellis Books and Brews." He pauses. Tilts his head. "This is Ellis Books and Brews, right?"
The universe has a sense of humor, apparently. A terrible, vicious, cosmically ironic sense of humor that thinks it's hilarious to send me a seven-foot orc who demolishes property on arrival and admits to liking trash with the kind of sincerity most people reserve for weddings and funerals.
I look at him. Process. Recalibrate.
"You're my placement," I say slowly, like speaking the words aloud will make them make more sense. They don't.
"That's what the paperwork says." He shifts his weight. The floorboards creak under him. "Cross-Cultural Placement Program. Two-year assignment. Ellis Books and Brews." A pause. "Unless there's been a mistake?"
There has to have been a mistake. Therehasto be.
I look at the awning. The crate. The books. The orc standing in my almost-open shop looking earnest and apologetic and like he might trip over another curb at any second.
"Of course you are."
The insideof the shop feels smaller with Stone in it.
Not because he's doing anything. He's standing very still near the door, hands clasped in front of him like a schoolboy waiting for detention.
But he'slarge.The kind of large that makes the ceiling feel lower and the aisles feel narrower and my carefully arrangedbookshelves feel like they're one wrong move away from total collapse.
I put the salvaged books on the countertop. Start sorting. Damaged. Salvageable. Might-be-okay-if-I-don't-look-too-close.
"Should I go?"
I glance up. He's still by the door. Still waiting.
"Did your paperwork say when you're supposed to start?"
"Today."
"Then no. You shouldn't go." I grab my phone. Open the email from the placement program. Scan the details I skimmed this morning while juggling Aunt Rene's breakfast and my own spiral of anxiety. "It says here you're supposed to help with setup. Customer service. General operations."
"I can do that," he says.
I can't help the skeptical look that crosses my face. "Can you?"
There's a pause. The kind that makes me think he's actually considering the question instead of just reflexively defending himself. That's... unexpected.
"I'm a fast learner," he finally offers, and there's something tentative in his voice. Not quite confidence. More like hope.
I look pointedly at the awning outside—at the torn fabric still fluttering in the breeze, at the crate of books that nearly became sidewalk pulp, at the visible evidence of his first five minutes on the job.
He follows my gaze. His shoulders drop half an inch.
