Parro's still making breakfast when I swim to the shop on the next street down. He's up earlier than usual. Was that just to ask me about a concert tomorrow night? Or...maybe he just woke up earlier. Maybe he's making Ange breakfast, because he's spontaneous and nice like that. I don't know. I swim to the shop next door.

We leave the store's back door unlocked, but just inside, Ange built a maze of wood boxes from the floor to the ceiling. Most of them are empty. Or super heavy. All of them are sealed shut. Ange figures if some people did want to rob our store, they'd either be dumb enough to steal an empty box, or smart enough not to wander into a store that chooses to set up a maze inside its unlocked back entrance.

I swim through the maze, right and left and left and right, into the storage room, loaded shelves lining the walls. I nudge upright a leaning stack of wooden boxes by the door into the storefront, I collect the pencil and price stickers bobbing beneath the empty shelf by the bins, I lift a box of woven rice cloth not made into any garments yet, and slip backwards through the middle door into the store. I swim over the dark wooden checkout counter. I set the box in the middle of the glass floor. I tap the pencil back and forth on the price stickers, tum-tap-tum-tap-tum-tap, they vibrate to my fingers.

Slowly,I swim around our teardrop store, brushing my fingers over the round hats, the pointy hats, the shirts, the boxes of inner wear, the shorts. I tap the wooden bed posts, the corners of shelves, the tiny wood statues Wrass is starting to sell. The price stickers glow soft yellow, dots pinpricking the aisles and cubbies.

Parro's probably coming to the store soon, I want to set out the rice cloth on the shelf where we sold out of softwood bed posts before he gets here, I pick up the box and swim to the corner, tapping my fingers on the lid. I set the load on the floor. I write out the price, one-point-five yurees for a bolt of fabric, but my right arm shudders of its own accord and the price tag jerks sideways, I get mad at myself, I tense up all my back fins, vibrate them; shush up, you, frustrated at yourself, I vibrate all my back fins. I've written one-point-fiv- aakgha my back fins vibrate.

I rub the eraser over int-fiv- but my floppy hand erases po too one time Ange asked me why I write out "point" instead of doing "." and I told him I started doing it that way so it was always going to stay that way the price tag gets all smudged with yellow eraser dust I blink rapidly.

I rewrite -point-five yurees through rapidly blinking eyes. But the price tag has smudges of yellow, why'd you have to ruin it arm, Parro's coming soon this is stupid I have to fix the price tag the smudges might look bad to the customers I erase the whole thing I shouldn't use a second price tag from the roll of sticky price tags, price tags cost money not that much but still if I never use a second price tag that eventually adds up to saving money I vibrate my back fins and tense up my whole knees and roll out my neck.

I re-write one-point-five yurees slowly, vibrations tumble through the glass floor up my feet so Parro must have arrived I stick the sticky price tag on the base of the shelf but it's got a bump in it I splay my hands wide and that drops the pencil I roll out my neck. I pick up the pencil, the bumpy price tag looks fine. FINE. DON'T fix it it looks FINE. IT's FINE. I tense up all my back fins fine I rip the sticky price tag off the wood shelf and smooth it out and plaster it back on the shelf but now it's not as sticky since I tore it off--

Parro's shadow startles me. I whirl around. His eyes go half-lidded. He signs at me and I stare and then his motions make sense "--for the bolts of fabric? Should we put that in the middle of all Da's bedposts? I think it makes more sense to put them closer to the other fabric items."

I blink. The roll of price tags bobs against the sloped ceiling. A corner of pale fabric shows through the corner of the wooden box. I sign with a pencil in my hand, "we sold out of the softwood bedposts, so I was going to put these in the empty space. I didn't think about that," I pause. "I only got the price tag on."

He peers around my shoulder, green eyes flicking back and forth. "Okay. I can clear a shelf by the shirts, and can you move all this stuff over there and set it up?"

"Yeah."

This is stupid I carefully pry the price tag off, the back's still sticky, I stick it to the corner of the box and swim to the ceiling for the roll of price tags and go back down for the box and swim after Parro.

***

Parro and Ange go to The Abyss for the concert. Squid Trumpets. The concert seems overwhelming, so many bodies pressing together, the taste of their perfumes clouding like mixed dyes, outfits clashing, vibrations warring in the water, lights pulsating on the concert stage.

So I stay in the store, to count through the boxes in the back, double-check with what we've sold out of, write out a list of things we need from Mum and Da and Wrass at the surface next week. That's how this goes; one month, Ange takes a list of stuff we need to the surface, comes back with a wagon full of boxes. The next month, Wrass comes down to the twilight zone with a wagon full of boxes of stuff they need to get rid of.

Inventory bores me. So I mix it up--I count through all the boxes on one wall, then I go to the storefront and swim in circles, tidy up displays, run my hands and fins and feet over the cool glass floor. With the shop closed and the street quiet this late before the weekend, the ocean currents that rise up the sloped seafloor carry clear thrums of vibration from the city. They pass through the water, vibrate the anchoring cords on the corners of the floor that tether our building--every building--to the mud.

I dance in the storefront to the deep, vibrating pulses through the water. I'm not much of a dancer, my right arm ignores me half the time and my face's reflection in the back wall always looks barrel-eyed and vaguely lost.

But this heartbeat inside me knows the familiar pulse of the water and demands some sort of greeting, "hello," "hi," "I see you there," "I see you back."

I sink in the water, gills panting, and paddle toward the back room to count up another wall of boxes when the front door opens.

I freeze.

I sink to the floor.

A blue-finned figure comes inside, smiles at me, my gaze shoots to the door by his shoulder and the "open for business" sign hasn't been flipped around; the store says it's still open, my right arm twitches.

Vibrations float from his moving mouth. I stare at the neon "open for business" sign over his shoulder. I point at my ear slit. I point at my other ear slit. HIs eyes widen, he shuffles with a pouch tied at the side of his checkered sweater and pulls out sponges--thin, round, speckled or smooth. I blink. He brought money, so...

He points to the corner, I glance over my shoulder, he's pointing at some shorts Mum made, dyed to look like lava streaks--he's here to buy some shorts.

I dart over, to the shorts, pull a pair from the shelf and hold them up. He swims over, pointy white teeth showing and vibrations float from his mouth. He points to another pair, folded up neatly. My bladder goes tight as a rock; of course I grabbed the wrong size, I shove it to the back of the half-full shelf and grab the right size. Hand it to him. Our fingers touch and itchy prickles tentacle themselves up my arm, up the fins spread about my wrists, I carefully rub my arm against my side. He hands over the sponge-yurees. They prickle in my hand. Five yurees for a pair of shorts, he counted it out right, but I hesitate. Parro always puts the money in the lockbox under the checkout counter, he keeps the key just inside the storage room door, I hate touching that key or any key the oily metal leaves its stinging taste all over my fingers and the cold touch burrows into my bones I squeeze my eyes shut and open them again.

I sign slowly, "can you put the money in the lockbox?"

He stares blankly. I drop the sponges in front of him so he can catch them and I beckon him after me. I swim above the checkout counter, to the door to the back room. I swing it open, check over my shoulder. He hasn't moved, so I point at the key puttied onto the wall. His mouth droops down in a half-circle and he slowly swims over. I jab a finger at the key stickied to the wall, I paddle backwards to give him space and go after the lockbox on the shelf under the checkout counter.

His voice vibrates in the water. I glance over my shoulder. He's holding the key between two fingers, eyes half-lidded. I nod. I scoop up the rectangle lockbox in my arms and hold it out. I point to the yurees in his other hand and down at the box. He paddles over. Unlocks the box. It is empty, Parro takes everything out right before the weekends. I motion to the yurees in his hand and point into the box. He slowly drops the sponges inside. I nod rapidly, and shut the box. I point back to the door, where the key goes. He moves, slowly. I twist around and slide the lockbox back in his dark wood shelf-home, my fingers find the blue binder keeping track of sales and I hug it to my stomach, check back on the door where Blue-finned guy is sticking the key in the putty on the wall. I shiver at that key, the oily sheen of it.

Vibrations pulse through the water and I startle. Blue-finned guy swims over, claps a hand to my shoulder and opens his mouth wide, vibrations spilling out. He wipes an eye and my heart drops; what have I done?

His hands are empty. Oh. He lost his shorts. Holding the binder to my stomach, I swim back over the counter and pick up the discarded shorts, streaks like red lava down the sides. I hold them out to him and he swims after me. Takes them. Vibrations come out of his mouth and he paddles to the exit, waving over his shoulder. I wave back.

The door shuts. I wait until the count to eight, fingers fluttering. Then I dart to the door and spin "open for business" around to "closed" in the glass. I exhale. My swim bladder slowly unknots itself. I float higher in the water.

I paddle to the storage room, grab the pencil, recording somebody buying shorts in the sales binder with shaky wrists. I put the binder away. I go count up a second wall of boxes.