Page 3 of Nobody Told Me Thrift Shops Sell Stolen Dragon Heirlooms

It was bigger than any of the other supply closets, and housed three shelves of toner, two mop buckets, a vacuum, banker’s boxes, and now three interns trying to eat in peace.

Devon looked up as I squeezed in and shut the door behind me.

“Quinn,” he said, through a mouthful of turkey sandwich. “Were you followed?”

“I don’t think so, but full disclosure, I have emotional residue from a toilet on two.”

Indira winced sympathetically and scooted over on a box of printer paper. “Partner bathroom?”

“Partner bathroom.”

She handed me a pack of baby wipes from her tote.

“I love you,” I said.

“I know.”

Though I’d scrubbed like a menace, I wiped down any visible skin with the wipes, just for peace of mind. That done, I sat between them, unwrapped my peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich, and took a bite so fast I barely tasted it.

For maybe ten blessed seconds, nobody asked me for anything.

I smiled and took another bite of my sandwich. The closet smelled faintly of paper dust and lemon cleaner, but beneath that was the stench of desperation unique to overeducated people making nine dollars an hour after tax.

Indira peeled back the foil on her yogurt. “Moira still says two openings.”

“She says that every week,” Devon said. “Moira also says she’s quitting every Friday.”

“She means it every Friday,” I said.

Indira glanced at me as she popped a spoonful of yogurt into her mouth. “You still think you’ve got a shot?”

The question was light, but it was covered in barbed wire.

Six interns. Two spots.

I studied my sandwich. “I didn’t go to law school on loans and scholarships and spend three years bluebook-ing myself into a fugue state for personal growth.”

Devon raised the last of his sandwich in salute. “Amen.”

“It’s either this, or I start committing tasteful fraud.”

Indira snorted. “See, this is why I like you. You say the darkest thing in the nicest possible way.”

That made me laugh, but only a little. Because the truth was, I needed this job. I didn’t just want it, I needed it.

I loved my parents too much to let myself pretend otherwise.

They had never once made me feel like a burden. And they were so proud of me. I still didn’t know how to handle it. My mom cried every time she told somebody her daughter was a lawyer, as if I had personally argued the Constitution of the United States into existence. Once, my dad introduced me to the cashier at Food City by saying, “This is my daughter, Quinn. She’s the smartest person I know,” with total, unembarrassed conviction.

They had made so much out of so little so I could better myself. I had no excuse not to do something with the opportunity they’d given me. Though I was still up to my ears in student loan debt, my parents had saved every dime they hadn’t needed for bills when I was growing up and put it toward my college fund. I wasn’t about to let all that sacrifice and faith go to waste.

I took another bite. “I’m getting one of those jobs.”

Indira nodded slowly. She understood the sentence for what it was: razor-sharp determination.

Devon checked his phone and groaned. “Cressler wants me.”

“Godspeed,” I said.