"You sure about that?"

"It's really good cheese, Jacob."

He laughed. "When's Paula get in?"

"About an hour. Come on upstairs, I'll make you some of these eggs."

"Nah, I got to make some deliveries. Bring you the leather this afternoon."

"Suit yourself," I said, putting the book in a desk drawer, behind the one functional lock in the entire building. "I'll be here all day."

He let himself out while I collected the basket of eggs and made my way upstairs. There was a small jar in the basket as well, packed with salted butter. I put a pan of water on to boil and cracked two eggs into a bowl, leaving the rest in the fridge. Fresh poached eggs and buttered toast are worth a wake-up call at seven in the morning any day of the week "but Sunday", as they say in Low Ferry.

After breakfast I opened the shop, not that there was anyone waiting, and settled down with the Farmer's Guide. I spent the better part of the day getting the cover off and delicately dissecting the segments of the text block, looking through each portion for ripped pages. Most of the twine used to stitch it together with was rotting. A really thorough job would mean picking out the stitches and re-sewing all of it, which took time and care. And there was no time like the present to start.

I was stitching merrily away, a pot of wheat paste at my elbow, when my silent customer slipped in again, right past me as I was working on a fiddly part of the book. I didn't dare look up until I'd finished, and by then he'd was nothing but a shadow behind a shelf.

I set the paper down carefully and checked the clock. Nearly three, which meant –

Even as I thought it, a crowd of students crashed into the shop, fresh from school and still carrying their backpacks.

"Hey!" I called, and most of them looked up. My customer did too, a sharp sudden movement. "Backpacks by the counter, you guys know the drill."

They rolled their eyes and piled their bags in an untidy heap, flocking around the magazines and comics. Among them was the boy who had questioned me the day before, rubbing his dark-haired head in consternation as he studied the newest arrivals. The children weren't interested readers, except for a few exiles who had more books than friends, but all of them lived for the day the comic books came in.

The little demons were learning economics, at least. I didn't know who had come up with the idea, but the children had discovered that if each of them bought a different comic, they only needed to buy one each – they could share them around at school or in the play-yard afterwards and read all the comics they pleased for a small price. The weekly negotiations over who would buy what were always very much in earnest.

While they were dickering over who got to buy what, and thus who had nominal ownership of which, my customer stalked behind the shelves until he had circled the children and was in the clear, with the children on his right flank and the door, an easy retreat, to his left. He stood there, indecisive, until desperation drove him out into the open and up to my counter.

He set the book down and offered me a small smile along with his cash (exact change) as I rang up the total. It was an odd amount, something I'd seen recently, and I looked at the book again.

"I'm sorry," I said. "Didn't you already buy this book?"

He looked surprised. "No, I bought another book."

"No, I'm sure it was this one," I insisted. "Was it defective?"

"No, it wasn't this book."

"Because if it was, you could return it. Weren't you satisfied with it? It didn't fall apart or something, did it? Was it inaccurate?"

"I – don't know," he confessed. "Actually, you gave me a different book instead."

"I did what?" I asked.

"There was a mix-up when..." he held his hand up to show Carmen's height. "The woman and girl came in. You gave me another book instead while you were dealing with her. I should have checked my bag. I don't want to return it," he added hurriedly. "I liked it."

"Did I overcharge you for it?"

"Oh, no, not really."

"What did I give you?"

"Greek myths. Ovid."

"One of these?" I asked, holding up a copy of Selected Myths of Ovid's Metamorphoses. The high school was using it for a literature course that fall.

"I didn't want to complain, it's just that my roof leaks. I don't blame you or anything," he added clumsily.

"I'm so sorry – here, take the book at my cost," I said, offering it to him.

"No, I'd really rather pay..."

"But it's my fault. Let me make it right with you," I said.

"I don't – " he cut off abruptly as several of the children swarmed around him, insinuating themselves against the counter so that I'd see them first when he left. He suddenly found himself engulfed in a sea of adolescents while trying to argue a point of pride with me. I felt a certain amount of pity for him.

"Please, I don't mind. I enjoyed it, so it doesn't matter," he insisted. He set the money on the counter and withdrew his hand, nearly elbowing one of the children in the nose as he did so. The boy from before had sidled up on his other side, comic books held tightly against his chest, and now he craned his head up and around the stranger's ribcage.