The gift shop closest to the train station was, predictably, packed with cheap junk. The one a few blocks away, however, was a veritable treasure trove. The sign, which read, ‘Curly’s Goods,’ looked about 40 years old and was grimy and uninviting. The windows were about the same. The door squeaked terribly when Barnabas pushed it open, and the place smelled vaguely of mold. The shelves were overflowing with items new, used, and broken. There was no sign of Curly. Shoved into a dirty corner was a spinner full of sunglasses. They tried on every pair, chose one each and set about finding Curly. Or whoever. A crusty-looking old woman was behind the counter when they made it out of the maze. (Had she been there the whole time?) She didn’t say anything to them, but glared at them as if they were impinging upon her plans for the day, which mostly included napping, and possibly getting drunk.

The shop next to Curly’s was also a gift shop, selling mostly local goods. They bought some fig preserves, a loaf of bread, and some fancy-looking local cheese, and took their tiny feast up to their room at the second-cheapest inn in town.

“This is really fucking good,” said Barnabas.

“It really is.”

“If I had friends, I would buy them all jars of this.”

“Shit. You know what we should do?”

“What?”

“We should buy each other souvenirs.”

“Sure.”

Vincent grinned. “Before we leave, I will buy you another jar of this.”

“Thank you.”

“What will you get me?”

“Um,” Barnabas was not practiced in the art of gift giving. “Oh! That shirt. From Curly’s.”

“What’s going to happen is, we’re going to go back and like, the shop won’t be there or some shit.”

“Does seem like the sort of thing that would happen, I guess. I’ll think of a back-up just in case.”

“Barnabas?”

“Yeah.”

“Thanks for coming with me.”

“Thanks for making me.”

“I’m glad you’re here.”

“Me too.”