She shoved him, gentler than she could have, and he chuckled as he lowered his arms.
They continued browsing, the quiet ticking clocks and distant creaks of the store filling the silence. The scent of old paper and leather mingled with the faint hint of sawdust in the air. Her eyes drifted back to the Barbie, drawn to the past it represented. Jonah, meanwhile, picked up a stuffed chicken toy and pressed its foot. To Ruby’s disbelief, a tiny, cheerful tune played, and Jonah danced.
“I don’t wanna be a chicken,” he sang, pressing his fingertips together.
“I don’t wanna be a duck,” he continued, placing his hands in his armpits and flapping his elbows with enthusiasm.
“Just shake my feathers.” He bent slightly at his hips and knees, swaying his butt left and right to the beat.
Ruby blinked, genuinely stunned. “What the hell was that?” she asked, a laugh bubbling up despite herself.
Jonah froze, turning to face her, mouth slightly agape. “The Chicken Dance?” he asked, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
“Did you… make that up?” she asked, still processing what she’d just witnessed.
“Did you even have a childhood?” Jonah snorted but looked genuinely appalled.
“Yup.” She nodded, her nose wrinkling and eyes narrowing. “Like sixty years ago. And that definitely was not a thing.”
He pointed the chicken at her. “The sixties sound lame.”
“Please,” she scoffed. “I’ve spent the last few years catching up on the decades. The 90s were pathetic. Frosted tips, puka shell necklaces, and grunge music?”
“Do not—” He tossed the chicken aside, and the song played on impact, “—insult grunge.”
A clattering noise echoed from the back of the shop, sharp and out of place in the otherwise still air. Ruby’s eyes narrowed, her senses sharpening. There was that familiar tug in her chest—like an invisible thread pulling her forward.
The thermophile was near.
With a brief, wordless nod to Jonah, she slipped silently through the aisles, the floorboards creaking beneath her steps. Jonah’s hand hovered near his belt, where his concealed gun lay, while Ruby remained unarmed.
“Well, hi there!” A cheerful, yet withered voice called out from their right, startling them both.
Ruby spun, instinctively nudging Jonah behind her as she faced the speaker. In an instant, she assessed the older man as no immediate threat. He appeared to be in his mid-60s, though his age had settled gently into his features. His eyes were kind but tired, laugh lines deeply etched at the corners like faded ink on parchment. His back was slightly hunched, and his skin was pale, wrinkles spreading across his face like delicate river streams. He wore a faded blue button-up shirt tucked into neatly pressed slacks, with a checkered vest hanging loosely along his torso. His long white hair was frizzy, but carefully combed, giving him the appearance of a man who took pride in himself despite his years.
He smiled warmly, his expression full of genuine curiosity. “Looking for anything in particular?” he asked. He carried the faint rasp of age but still retained a melodic lilt.
Jonah shifted uncomfortably. Something hung between them, thick and charged, as if the shop itself was bracing for impact. “We were actually looking for you,” he said, his words careful, deliberate—like stepping onto thin ice.
“Were you now?” The older man leaned against a wooden armoire, utterly at ease, as though he had all the time in the world. The way he moved—so calm and composed—was at odds with the dangerous energy in the air. This wasn’t the face of a killer, nor did he exhibit the twitchy unease typical of thermophiles on the run. “What can I do for you?” he asked, his eyes crinkling again in that kindly way.
“My name’s Ruby,” she said, nodding toward her partner. “And this is Jonah.”
The man’s smile widened as he extended his hand. “I’m Gerald.”
Ruby’s stomach twisted at the simple act of hearing his name. It wasn’t recognition, but a feeling she’d trained herself to suppress—the instinct to humanize her targets. This was a job, not a personal connection. She took his hand, unsurprised by the strength in his grip, the warmth that radiated from his skin despite the chill that seemed to seep from the shop’s shadowed corners. Jonah stood beside her, his brow furrowed.
“We’re members of the Thermophile Control Agency,” Jonah hedged, his tone cautious, waiting for a reaction that didn’t come.
Gerald simply cocked his head, genuinely perplexed. “What was that?”
“The Thermophile Control Agency,” Jonah repeated, this time more firmly. “We track down thermophiles.”
Gerald’s smile didn’t falter. It remained patient, but tinged with bewilderment. “I’m sorry,” he said, shaking his head. “I don’t think I understand.”
Ruby took a step forward, her eyes narrowing as she studied the older man more closely. She focused on the veins around his eyes, noting the faint green hue—identical to her own. This detail confirmed what she had already suspected: Gerald hadn’t consumed human phlogiston in years, maybe even decades.
“Do you run the shop on your own?”
