Callahan’s was not grimy. It was warm, and half full, and the woman I sat down across from at the corner booth was already waiting for me, because our dinner had been scheduled for three weeks. Her name was Odile Vance, and she was the features editor of the regional magazine my mother reads at the salon, the one with the thick paper my mother admires. She was there to interview me. My “little bookstore” had, over ten quiet years, become the highest-grossing independent bookshop in the state, host to a national author series, and the subject of a cover story that had already been laid out and printed. The photographer arrived twenty minutes in to shoot me at the booth, because Odile wanted the pub, wanted the brick, wanted the neon. It was, she said, exactly my style.

Bianca saw the camera through the rain-streaked window first. Then she saw Odile, whom she had been trying to book for the shower’s coverage for two months and had been politely declined. Then she saw the light on my face and understood, with the particular horror of someone whose entire currency is being seen, that the sister she had sent across the street was the story.