The pedestrian light flickers on again, musically, obnoxiously. Before Hanry and I can move, before I can ask why Hanry suggested we purchase lawn gnomes for Grandma Rose’s front yard, a random cowboy two-steps between us, breaking apart our clasped hands. “Yeehaw!” he says.
I cover my eyes. Everything in my life has to be a goddamn spectacle, doesn’t it?
Hanry rescues me with a solid push to my back.
“I… don’t know what that was,” he says, guiding me past. “Let’s just go this way.”
In spite of Hanry’s odd reluctance to be up-front about the gnomes, I suspect they were the thrust of his plan all along, because minutes later, we arrive at a Home Depot with a garden center. I take his hand in mine, squeeze, and release some of my fizzling indignation at the universe. Yes, I’m still living in Salem the Madhouse. No, I’m not in New York. But at least I have Hanry, and Hanry is bringing me to a box retail store, a normal place. Because he’s a nice, normal person.
Yet I’m suspicious. And cranky.
“How will redecorating Grandma Rose’s yard help, exactly?” I ask. I haven’t told him yet about the kidnapped yard flamingos or the earthen craters lingering tragically in their absence. Already a couple of tourists have started throwing coins into the largest hole in my Grandma’s lawn, thinking it’s some kind of bleak, decorative Halloween-themed wishing well.
Gently disregarding my mood, Hanry points us past the garden center entrance and to the Home Depot’s back wall. He casts a few longing glances down the aisles with drill bits and power tools but perseveres until we near the bathrooms. He stops at an unmarked swing door.
Of course we’ll be going through that door. Of course.
“This way to wonderland,” I mutter.
“Nah,” says Hanry. He gives my shoulders a reassuring squeeze. “Wonderland is only accessible by tunnels. And with PBI clearance only.”
“Who?”
“The Paranormal Bureau of Investigation.”
Pleased, I say, “I knew that had to be a thing! Can I hire them to help me?”
“Probably not. Their main job is to erase human memories about the paranormal community,” he says, to my disappointment. “Anyway, this room leads to Special Services. They’re the ones who can send out gnomes for you, to do whatever you need.”
On that unsettling note, Hanry pushes the door open. A single buzzing fluorescent bulb lights a sterile room, featureless but for a long counter with a hanging sign that readsSPECIAL SERVICES. Behind the counter, a bored woman with a pierced nose and a buzz haircut flicks to the next page in her book. Hanry places a forearm casually on the countertop, smiling. This behavior should come off as unbearably gross, but his smile is somehow un-smarmy and un-creepy. I cross my arms so he knows how little I appreciate his display of effortless charm.
Hanry doesn’t pay attention. He is a man on a mission.
“Socks,” he says.
“One moment.”
The woman dog-ears a yellowed page in her paperback. She places it face down and leaves. Which is odd, because I note that this room has no windows. Or doors. Or air vents.
I look around. Where the hell did she go? Where did the door we entered through go? And what’s with the secret password?
“Did you know,” Hanry says out of the blue, “that you can fix your phone by turning it off and on again? No matter what’s going wrong?”
I shoot him a disbelieving look.
“Really. You can,” he says, misinterpreting me entirely. “I visited an Apple store recently. Have you been to their Genius Bar? They’ve got some great tips.”
“Hanry,” I say, “they aren’t geniuses. They’re dweebs with peak TikTok keyword skills.”
The representative returns with an off-brand iPad. Hanry has it turned upside down as he passes it to me. He nearly drops it.
“Sorry. I, uh, forgot where the buttons are.”
I know that Hanry more or less called himself a Luddite, but this enters anachronistic time-traveler territory. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was raised by a lost Amazonian tribe. But then again, he’s from New Hampshire.
“Tablets don’t have buttons,” I say as I take over, tapping through the single icon on the main screen. When the app loads, I scroll down a list of services. “What am I looking for?”
Somewhat distressed at the speed of my window-opening and swiping, Hanry points to the bulleted option betweenTALK TO CATSandRAPSCALLIONERYthat readsGNOMES.
