You ever have that dream where you’re walking down the street and everyone is staring at you?

They start to laugh as you pass by, subtly at first, but it gets faster and louder until you finally look down and realize that you’re naked.

Yeah, it’s kind of like that.

Except I’m not asleep and I’ve checked three times already to make sure I put on pants before I left Hank’s house.

No, they’re just staring at me because that’s what people do when your name is Jovie Ross.

It starts on my street with Mrs. Clark, the pastor’s wife. Her dog barks at me from the porch as I walk by her house. She steps outside, takes one look at me, and bolts right back in, dragging her dog by the collar as she goes.

I should see this for the omen it is but I keep on walking like an idiot, quickly happening by several other neighbors who more or less do the exact same thing. Some just stare. Slightly fewer wave. One literally clutches the pearls around her neck.

It’s nice to be remembered, I suppose.

I hit the town square and walk down Main Street until I reach Trin’s Toy Store on the corner, sandwiched between the bookstore and a coffee shop that wasn’t there when I left. There’s a ‘HELP WANTED’ sign displayed in the window. My lips curl at the small victory. At least I know he’s hiring.

But is he willing to hire me again?

Only one way to find out.

I pull open the door and the entry bell rings above my head.

“Welcome!” I hear from the check-out counter to the right.

I catch sight of Mr. Trin himself standing behind it. He doesn’t look up from the small stack of paperwork in front of him, displaying his shiny, bald head to the world.

I snatch the ‘HELP WANTED’ sign from the window and walk straight toward him, taking wide, purposeful strides until I can lay the sign down in his eye-line.

He peeks up at me over the rims of his glasses and his brow furrows.

“Absolutely not,” he says.

“Hi, Mr. Trin.” I deepen my smile. “It’s good to see you!”

“No.”

“I would like to talk to you about a jo—”

“No.”

I tilt my head. “Please?”

“The position is for serious applicants only, Jovie.”

“I am a serious applicant, Mr. Trin.”

“Serious applicants include those with perfect work histories,” he argues. “Not girls who stop showing up without notice.”

“I know,” I say, leaning forward. “I was going through something at the time — and I’m really sorry — but that’s all over now…”

“You left me in a lurch.”

I hold my hands in prayer between us. “I did and I felt really badly about that.”

“It took forever to find a decent smock girl again,” he continues. “Then, she left to go have some schmuck’s babies in Topeka.”

“Well,” I feign a laugh, “I can assure you that I won’t be doing that anytime soon. Or ever. Most likely never. I don’t even know anyone from Topeka.”

“I’m from Topeka.”

I inhale a sharp breath and let out an awkward chuckle. “Okay, I don’t think Mrs. Trin would like me cracking a joke about having your babies, so I’m just gonna let that one slide…”

His head shakes. “I’m sorry, Jovie, but I already have interviews scheduled for today.”

“Cancel them.” He glares at me as he steps around the counter with his papers in hand. “I worked here for over three years. You barely have to even train me. Think of the time save, Mr. Trin. I know how much you value time save.”

He wanders across the shop toward the office in the back. “The other girls have good resumes,” he says, raising the papers above his head.

I follow one step behind him. “Yeah? Well, will the other girls arrange the dinosaur figures alphabetically by species?”

“No, they’ll arrange them by size and color the way they’re supposed to.”

“Oh...” I pass with him through the doorway. “That’s not very educational.”

“Hey, hey—” He points over my shoulder at the ‘Employees Only’ sign glued to the door.

I step back but stay in the frame. “You know, I hung this sign,” I say, rapping my knuckle against it.

“I know.” Trin collapses into his desk chair. “It fell off twice.”

“Come on, Mr. Trin.” I sigh. “I’m falling on my sword here.”

He wavers, flexing his jawline and squinting at me. “I don’t know—”

“Please,” I beg. “You can start me at minimum wage. I don’t care. My availability is wide open. Days, weekends, holidays. You name it, I’ll be here. I can start today — right now, if you need it. Just… please.”

Trin rubs his shiny head. “Fine,” he spits. “Seven twenty-five an hour. Ten to close every day with an hour lunch.”

I raise a brow. “Seven twenty-five? Is that really what minimum wage is now?”

He glares. “Is that a problem?”

“No, sir,” I say quickly. “Not at all.”

“We can talk about raising that if you last six months,” he adds.

I fill my lungs with relief. “Thank you. That’s perfect. Really. Thank you.”

He points over my shoulder. “Grab a smock from the back. I assume you remember where they are?”

“I do.” I spin in a half circle but double back slowly. “So, now that I’m hired… can we discuss a possible fifty dollar advance on my first paycheck?”

His stern face twitches.

I surrender my hands and back out of the office. “You’re right. Never mind. No problem. Sorry I asked.”

“Jovie…”

I poke my head back in. “Yeah, boss?”

Trin stands up and reaches into his back pocket for his wallet. “You can start tomorrow morning,” he says, fishing it open. “I want you here at ten sharp. There are a few things that have changed since you left so we’ll need to go over those.”

I nod, trying not to stare at his hands. “I’ll be here.”

He grabs a folder off the desk, paper-clips a fifty dollar bill to the W-2 form inside, and offers it to me. “Fill these out before you come in.”

I take it from him, once again feeling warm relief fill my chest. “Thank you, Mr. Trin,” I say.

He pats my shoulder as he passes back onto the shop floor. “Welcome home, kid.”

My smile deepens. I’d forgotten that he used to call me that. It’s strange how it all comes back. Not just the physical details of a life once lived but the emotions that came with it. I really do feel like shit for leaving Mr. Trin in a bind the way I did. He was one of two people in this town who pretended to give a crap about me, after all.

The second person? Well…

That story is much longer.

And it hurts twice as much.