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“Turn toward your friend,” said Mr. Boy.

So she did, and she caught sight of Nance scribbling something in a little notebook. What was she writing? Ava felt herself getting tense again.

“That’s a wrap,” said Mr. Boy.

* * *

On the way home, Ava felt calmer than she had in a long time. She sat back in her seat, not feeling compelled, for the time being, to check herself in the mirror, because she was beautiful, Mr. Boy had seen her naked and confirmed it.

“That thing we just did cost a lot of money,” Nance said, her eyes darting over at Ava.

“Thank you very much,” Ava said.

“It’ll be worth it. This is just the beginning for you, my dear. You’re going to get on that show and get rich and famous and show everybody!”

“Show them what?”

“You’ll be a star!” Nance leaned forward like she was pushing the car with her upper body. “Nobody will mistreat you ever again.”

“Really?” Ava didn’t believe this for a minute. People were always mistreating people.

“We’ll show them,” Nance muttered, pounding her little fist on the steering wheel.

Ava didn’t really want to show people anything. “If my mom finds out about this,” she said, “I’ll tell her it was your idea. It was your idea.”

Nance tightened her grip on the leatherette wheel, her mouth in a tight line. She looked like Miss Clavel’s evil twin.

“But thanks so much,” Ava said, “for taking me and paying for the pictures. It was so nice of you and I really appreciate it.”

“Does your grandfather ever go for walks by himself?” Nance said, not seeming to hear the thanks. “Is there any place he goes on a regular basis?”

“He likes the Cracker Barrel,” Ava said, because she couldn’t think of what to say to Nance’s nosy questions, and she herself liked the Cracker Barrel. “He doesn’t get to go there much,” she added, and Nance smiled.

He’d drawn their locations on a grid for maximum efficiency, and since a lot of the shops were on South Monroe, he decided, on his first Saturday off from McDonald’s in three weeks, to work his way south on Monroe. Actually, he didn’t get the day off—he was taking it off. It was Memorial Day weekend so they’d be swamped at McDonald’s, but he’d called in anyway and left a message for his boss, Oinker, saying he was sick, which might mean he’d get fired the next time he went in. He’d worry about that later.

All the antique stores in town had wimpish names: Remembered Treasures, Grandma’s Attic, the Ding a Ling, Miss Sandy’s, Old Glory, Sisters, Something Nice, Southern Chicks. Antique stores were for old ladies. If you didn’t already know that, the names of the places would be a big hint. He felt conspicuous and clumsy going in, but his Geiger counter helped. As soon as he opened the trunk of the Pontiac and took out his Geiger counter—a blue metal machine about the size of his forearm that looked like a cross between a car window scraper and huge dildo—he always felt better. He had a purpose. He was a man with a machine, a man on a mission. The women in the stores watched him curiously as he waved his machine over the merchandise, but they watched him with respect. Or, maybe they were just scared of him, which was okay, too.

He ticked the stores on South Monroe off his list, one by one. At the next to last store, Grandma’s Attic, his was the only car parked in front of the shop. With his trusty Geiger counter in hand he opened the door, setting off the usual electronic bell sound, and stepped inside the tepid air-conditioning. The room smelled both dusty and moldy, like all the shops he’d been in. This one, though, had a stinky cinnamon-scented candle burning somewhere.

He took in his surroundings. Long room with no windows except the dirty plate glass ones in the front. No other customers—no visible people, period. Typical stuff. Lots of old dishes, toys, random furniture, shelves of paperbacks, cases of costume jewelry. He didn’t see any clocks, but there had to be some, maybe hidden, even buried. He would cast a wide net.

He switched on