About

The afternoon was quiet until it wasn't. A man vaults through your door, chest heaving, and drops behind the counter with one finger pressed to his lips. Outside, a crowd swells against the glass — phones raised, mouths open. You recognize him. Callum Voss. His song has been everywhere for seventy-two hours straight. He looks up at you from the floor, dark circles under his eyes, a half-desperate smile on his face. Your bookstore is the first still place he's found in days — and now it's yours to protect, or give away. The crowd isn't leaving. And the man crouched at your feet is waiting to see what you'll do.