Shadows Between the Pages

Chapter Three - Count to Sixty

"For weather," I corrected, delighted to be seen. "If umuulan, poetry and soups. If sobrang init, crime and ice cream memoirs. If Pasko, everything with lights."

She made a soft sound that could have been approval. "Weather forecaster ka pala."

"Boss title ko 'yan," I said. "Chief Meteorologist of Rooms."

Her phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen, and a different gravity hung around her eyes. "I have to take this," she murmured.

"Go ahead," I said, trying to be casual as I slid a stack of paperbacks onto the shelf. She stepped outside but stayed within sight. I pretended to preoccupy myself with barcodes, but I watched her through the glass: the way she kept her back to the wall, the way her jaw tensed once, twice, then relaxed like a decision had been made.

When she came back in, she'd wrapped her silence tighter. "You okay?" I asked, then felt like I'd trespassed.

"Yes," she said. A beat. "There's... something I need to tell you so you don't imagine worse things."

"I'm already imagining an entire telenovela," I confessed lightly. "With a budget."

She almost smiled. Almost. "That parcel yesterday—it means someone who should be using my work mail used other channels. Sloppy. It also means people who want to find me know you exist."

A small cold leaf unfolded in my stomach. "Because of the address."

"Because of patterns," she said. "They look for patterns. So we break them."

"What does breaking them look like, aside from counting to sixty?"

Her eyes scanned the shop—not in panic, not in script, just method. "A few things. If you want."

"Teach me," I said before fear could rewrite me into a smaller character.

She nodded. "One: switch your lunch time randomly. Don't always close at the same hour. It annoys nice customers; it confuses the others. Two: Move the fairy lights in poetry. Angle the unlit bulbs so they reflect on the glass—small mirror. You'll see behind you while reading receipts. Three: Put a wedge on the back door. You have one?"

"Doorstop meron. Wedge... wala."

"I'll bring you one." She continued. "Four: Code word with Lola. Something ordinary. If you say it, she calls for help."

"Like what? Sinigang? Too obvious."

She considered. "Pakwan."

I laughed. "Because we had some yesterday?"

"Because no one asks for watermelon in a bookstore," she said. "So it won't be said accidentally."

"Pakwan it is," I agreed, committing it to the part of my brain where I keep phone numbers and poems. "Anything else?"

"Five: Reposition the CCTV angle if you can." She pointed to the dome by the door. "Lower glare. Better face capture. Six: Don't walk home alone this week. Call Tin. Or me."

I opened my mouth to be independent. Closed it again to be smart. "Okay," I said. "I'll call you. If you're free," I added, so it wouldn't sound like a plea.

"I'll make time," she said simply, as if time were a pocketknife she could open and close at will.

The bell chimed. Two mothers arrived with strollers and a toddler who immediately made for the picture books like a heat-seeking missile. The toddler chose one with a dragon on the cover and roared at me in a way I can only describe as a compliment. The mothers apologized; I handed the child a board book and declared him our new manager. Laughter smoothed the room.