The doorbells chime, and I pop my head around the corner of a bookshelf so fast that I nearly smack myself in the nose on the dark wood.

“You can get one book,” a man is saying, like he’s admonishing a child.

“Aww!” a kid’s voice says.

I crane my neck and finally get a look at them: a thirty-something guy in jeans and his son, maybe seven or eight. The kid races off to the next room, full of kids’ books, and the dad watches him go, then starts scanning the new releases.

I rest my head against the cool wood of the bookshelf and sigh, half in disappointment and half in frustration, my nerves only getting worse.

It’s almost seven and still no Papa, I think.

Where the hell could he be? Did he get held up at the border?

I know my father’s a grown man, but I can’t help worrying about him. He comes from a time when a man got married young and moved from his mother’s house to his wife’s house, meaning that he’s used to someone taking care of him.

He’s used to someone cooking, someone cleaning, someone making sure there’s food and that the bills are all paid.

He’s used to someone picking up his insulin prescription, so that when he needs it, it’s just in his medicine cabinet already.

For years and years, my mom did all that, and the two of them got along fine — until pancreatic cancer meant that one day she felt sick, and then a month later she was gone. Now I’m all Papa’s got, and even though I’ve spent the last two years trying to teach him to make his own sandwiches, change can be hard when you’re past retirement.

“Can I have this one?” the kid calls, his excited voice echoing through the bookstore.

Even though I’m worried, I can’t help but smile. It’s heartwarming when kids love books, and when they beg their parents for just one extra novel, instead of more video games.

“Sure,” his dad calls, not really paying attention as he tilts his head, reading the spines.

I shelve the last of my shipment, then grab the empty cardboard box and deposit it behind the counter. I force myself not to look out the bookstore’s windows to the dark, snowy street outside.

He was supposed to be home two hours ago.

Did he even take his medicine with him? Last time he went to a University lecture across the border he forgot it, and even though he came home in plenty of time I was a wreck.

I straighten some bookmarks that I’ve got displayed on the counter, trying to focus on them instead of on the million bad things that could have happened to Papa.

Car wreck. Slipped and fell. Attacked by a mob of angry teenagers. Detained at the border for some silly reason, like they think his drawings of one of his inventions are a bomb.

Detained at the border because he mouthed off again about how the monarchy should be deposed, and this time the wrong border guard was listening…

God, I wish any of these were less likely. Papa’s brilliant but scatterbrained.

He’s probably just at the pub with some of the other club members, I remind myself. Especially if he’s wearing that watch he built himself, because it’s not exactly the most accurate…

The phone rings, and I jump about a mile in the air, then snatch it from the cradle.

“Isabelle’s Bookstore, hi this is Isabelle how can I help you?” I say in a rush, the words spilling out of me.

There’s a brief pause on the other end of the line.

“Am I speaking with Isabelle Marchand?” a man asks, carefully and slowly, like he’s reading from a piece of paper.

“Yes,” I say, my heart seizing in my chest. I can tell from just the way he says it that this is no good. No good at all.

“You are Jacques Marchand’s requested phone call,” he says, again sounding like he’s reading off of something. “Do you accept?”

“Yes!” I shout. The guy in the store looks up at me in surprise, but I’m too anxious to even smile at him.

Oh god oh god oh god.

There’s a long, long pause. Static. Clicking. Voices I can’t make out, but then finally, someone breathes heavily into the receiver.

“Sweetheart, everything is okay,” Papa’s voice finally tells me.

I feel like I’ve swallowed a pound of ice, because that means there is no way everything is okay.

“What happened? Where are you?”

“I’m just, ah, in a temporary situation right now,” he says. “I may not be home for a bit—”

“Are you at the border?” I ask. “Are they detaining you? You’re a citizen, I know you know your rights, they have to give you cause.”

Even though Griskold is a monarchy, we’re not living in the year 1350. We’ve got a constitution; the people have rights. It’s not an absolute monarchy.

Of course, I suspect Papa’s in this situation because he told someone he thought it shouldn’t be a monarchy at all.

“I’m not at the border,” he says, his voice sounding faraway. “They, ah, well, sweetie, I’m at the palace.”

The palace?

Why in the ever-loving fuck is Papa at the palace?

“What did you do?” I nearly shout, and the dad glances back at me quickly.

“Nothing,” Papa says indignantly.

Of course he won’t tell me. I’m sure someone else is listening in on our conversation, so he’s not going to admit to anything.

If only he’d been that clever earlier.

I sigh, looking over my bookstore, my stomach a thick knot of worry. Papa’s getting older, and he’s not exactly frail, but he’s no spring chicken either.

More importantly, he’s all I’ve got.

“Hold on, I’m coming,” I say, the knot in my stomach tightening.

“Sweetheart, no,” he says, his voice suddenly tinged with panic. “Don’t do that, it’s—”

I hang up the phone, the receiver clattering onto the counter.

Like hell I’m letting this happen.