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"And mine."

"They do that too."

She folds a receipt carefully.

"But usually it's just stories."

I glance at her.

"Usually?"

Her eyes move toward the front window.

"This year feels awake."

I laugh.

"That's a great slogan for the town tourism board."

"I'm not joking."

For a moment, neither of us speaks. Outside, the afternoon has dimmed. Not dramatically.

Just enough that I notice.

Clouds gathering. The kind of thick gray clouds that make October afternoons feel like evenings. Probably weather. Nothing more.

"I've had three different people ask for protection charms this week," Everly says.

"Tourists love protection charms."

"They weren't tourists."

That gets my attention. Everly isn't dramatic. That is what makes her unsettling.

She is the same woman who will spend twenty minutes listening to someone explain that their cat hates them before gently suggesting they change laundry detergent.

She doesn't invent problems. She doesn't exaggerate. She doesn't scare people.

"You've got your worried face on," she says.

"I don't have a worried face."

"You absolutely do."

"I have a skeptical face."

"That's the one."

A young couple approaches the register carrying matching black cat mugs. Everly rings them up while I wander toward the tea display. My favorite blend—smoked vanilla chai—is finally back in stock. I add two tins to the growing pile on the counter. When the couple leaves, Everly slips a small packet of loose herbs into my bag. I look down.

"I didn't buy those."

"I know."

"What are they?"

"Just in case."