Every speck of wall space was absolutely covered in shelves.

  From floor to ceiling.

  And every shelf?

  Crammed full of every potion color and bottle shape you could imagine. Round, square, corked, wax-sealed, stoppered with bones—half of them looked like they’d explode if you shook them too hard.

  To be fair, they probably would.

  The room smelled like someone had spilled a perfume shop, a swamp, and a tavern mop bucket in equal measure.

  So like the rest of the store - just more poignant.

  A lone goblin sat at a table in the middle of the room. The contraption of a helmet he wore had magnifying glasses of every size, layered on top of each other like he’d looted a jeweler, a welder, and a mad scientist in one afternoon.

  I had no idea what his head or face even looked like—all that poked out from the mess was his long, green nose.

  I waited for him to call me over.

  He didn’t.

  So I stood there awkwardly, watching.

  He meticulously emptied half of every bottle into an empty one. Then topped both of them off with what looked suspiciously like water.

  Quality.

  Adjustment.

  I stared.

  Then I shrugged.

  At this point, I didn’t even care anymore. Go Safety and QA! Just give me my pay at the end of the week, and don’t ask too many questions.

  I grabbed a stool and sat opposite the goblin, whom I decided to call Tinkerer—Tink for short.

  What? He should’ve told me his name. And it was a better name than It. Or Stupid.

  I wonder how Stupid is, by the way?

  Tink still seemed content to ignore me, so I copied him.

  Split the contents.

  Water them down.

  Cork the bottle.

  Put it on the shelves behind me.

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  Repeat.

  I’m not a crook. I’m not a crook. I’m not—

  The hours melted away, the two of us falling into an easy rhythm. At one point, he started handling the splitting while I did the diluting and corking. There was a kind of quiet comfort to it.

  Just enough to keep the hands busy, and the thoughts quiet.

  Tink seemed to appreciate my pace. At least I thought so, because after a while, he actually spoke.

  “Not usually so swamped,” he grunted, slipping down from his stool and wheeling a cart over to the far wall to gather more potions.

  “Some sod apparently wrecked Aisle Four—so we’re playing catch-up.”

  I coughed weakly.

  “Glad Matilda found me a competent helper.”

  “So… what brings you here?” he asked, not looking up.

  And, to my surprise -

  I actually started monologuing.

  I didn’t mean to.

  But the words came out. Quietly at first, then like a trickle from a cracked dam.

  Maybe it was because he was the first person—creature—nope, definitely a person—who’d bothered to ask how I was.

  I told him everything. How my village had been enslaved by bandits. How I was the only one of my family to make it out. How I was actually glad I didn’t have a sister, based on what I’d seen happen to the other girls.

  How they’d put me to work in the mines. How they fed us just enough to keep us strong.

  Then one day, a “hero” came.

  An earth mage.

  Blew the whole place up with a big dramatic quake. Buried the bandits.

  And us.

  Then he left. Probably off to get a medal.

  “Stupid cracking mages,” I muttered.

  Tink nodded, jaw tightening like someone who had a mage-shaped grudge of his own.

  I told him how I’d been the only one to survive. How I’d clawed my way out. How I’d stumbled to the city, starving and filthy, only to find that being part elf meant the humans hated me.

  And being part human meant the elves wouldn’t touch me.

  Everyone hated either one or the other.

  Clipboard Tyrant was the only one who’d given me a shot.

  Tink actually snorted at the name.

  And then, silence again.

  But not the awkward kind.

  The good kind.

  It felt good to talk.

  No… it felt good to be heard.

  “Thanks, Tink,” I said after a while.

  He looked at me. “Name’s Bob. But you can call me Tink.”

  Oops.

  “Best keep your head down and do your best,” he said, sliding off his chair and heading for the door. “You might be surprised what you find here.”

  He gestured for me to follow.

  “Come on—shift’s over. Wouldn’t mind working with you again, Beeg.”

  He opened the door to let me out.

  I found I didn’t mind the name Beeg so much when Tink said it.

  ?

  Matilda nodded with a smile as I passed.

  “Good work tonight, Beeg. Take tomorrow off—be here bright and early the day after.”

  “Thanks… Matilda,” I said, smiling as I patted the store’s doorjamb on my way out.

  The store rumbled quietly after me.