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"Nine tomorrow," she says.

"Nine."

She goes down the hill. I watch her the whole two blocks, until Shay's porch light goes off behind her and the door shuts.

Then I walk back up to the shop and stand at the wrap counter in the dark. The carousel is still sitting there, stopped.

I offered her the counter and the room upstairs.

I didn't offer her me.

7

NOELLE

"You're early," Dottie says from the register when I push through the door of Lindgren's Toys at ten minutes to nine.

"Couldn't sleep." I stamp the snow off my boots on the mat.

Dottie holds out a little enamel pin that says HELPER. "Window walk night. Everybody on staff wears one."

I pin it to my cardigan before I can point out that I won't be staff after tonight.

I don't tell her I lay awake on Shay's couch until four, staring at the ceiling, my body still humming in places I didn't know could hum. I don't tell her I got up at seven and repacked my duffel twice, then carried it up the hill with me. I always keep my bag with me on the last day. That way, nobody has to ask when I'm leaving.

On my way in, I passed the lamppost right outside the shop. There's a sprig of mistletoe on it now, green and white, knotted on with red cord. It wasn't there yesterday. I'm sure of it. Somebody was out on Prospect last night after I went down the hill.

I hang my coat by the register, walk back toward the wrap counter, and stop.

The carousel is back on the top shelf.

It's sitting exactly where it sat on Saturday morning, above the paper rolls, out of reach. The NOT FOR SALE card leans against its base, perfectly straight. The key faces the wall.

I stand there with my scarf still in my hands and my duffel still on my shoulder.

Last night, it was on this counter. Last night, it played three times, and I sat beside it in his flannel with my hair a mess, and he looked at me as though I were something he'd made with his own hands.

Now it's back on the shelf. Put away. Done.

The cold starts in my fingers and works up my arms.

"He was already here when I came in," Dottie says behind me, quietly.

I don't turn around. "Okay."

"I came in at eight to get the register ready for tonight. He was standing at that counter with that thing in front of him. Just standing there, honey. Then he got the stool and put it back up."

"It's his. He can put it wherever he wants."

"I know it is."

The stockroom door swings open, and Arch comes out with his arms full of extension cords and a box marked CIDER URN. He sees me. He stops for half a second. Then he keeps walking.

"Morning," he says.

"Morning."

He sets the box on the end of my counter. His flannel today is blue. His beard is damp, as though he's just showered, and there are shadows under his eyes. He doesn't touch me. He doesn't come any closer than the box.