The neon sign above the storefront hums a dull magenta, flickering against the gray afternoon sky. Through the glass doors, rows upon rows of DVD cases line every wall, their covers a kaleidoscope of flesh, leather, tentacles, and things that probably violate several laws of physics.

Behind the counter stands Sen, eighteen years old, a freshly minted high school senior, and currently the most flustered employee in the entire city. Her short brown hair sticks up slightly where she has been running her hands through it, and her purple eyes dart anywhere except the shelves. Her blue and white company polo shirt is already rumpled, the name tag reading TRAINEE pinned crooked above her chest.

She has been on the clock for exactly forty-seven minutes.

It feels like forty-seven years.

"Okay, okay, okay," I whisper, staring hard at the laminated employee handbook open on the counter. "Just ring people up. Don't judge. Don't look at the covers too long. Don't think about why anyone would need a three-disc set of Squirrel Girls Go Nuts for Nuts."

The handbook's table of contents alone has made her ears turn pink. Chapter Four: Handling Returns and Stains. Chapter Seven: When a Customer Asks If We Have It, We Probably Do. Chapter Twelve: The Futa Section Is Not a Typo.

A small bell above the door chimes as it swings open, letting in a draft of cool air and the faint smell of alleyway dumpsters. Sen's shoulders tense instantly. She forces her eyes up from the handbook, jaw tight, determined to look professional despite the fact that her face is the color of a ripe tomato.

She has not noticed that she is gripping the counter's edge hard enough to make her knuckles white.

"Welcome to Ballbuster Video," I say, my voice cracking slightly. "Please don't make this weird."