Namjoon hasn't run out of money yet. There are wads of cash stashed in various cubbies and nooks throughout the house and Mr. Park is charging what has to be an egregiously low amount for rent every month. Maybe the fact that the chatty lady at the real estate agency introduced them and Namjoon had nothing but a small bag of all his worldly belongings made the landlord take pity on him.

Despite the low rent, cheap groceries, and lack of any other expenses, the money isn't going to last forever.

He's going to have to find a job. And it's going to be the most innocuous, low-key job he can get his hands on, with minimal human interaction and nothing that involves putting on a fake face to sell something. Namjoon would rather be evicted than become a sales person.

These thoughts are yet again filling the empty space in his mind like so much white noise one afternoon while swinging at the park. Each pump of his legs sends him soaring to a stomach-twisting height where he squints up at the clouds and gets lost in how vast the sky is, how it curves away in an unfathomable blue dome. He thinks about stuff like this a lot now.

If anything, he'll probably do well at an interview as long as his recent descent into hermitage hasn't completely wrecked his people skills. But where to find a job that's within walking distance, won't immediately dismiss him because he doesn't have a phone number, and where he won't be required to talk to people?

The grocery store isn’t an option. It’s filled with high school employees and angry grandmothers who berate them when their grocery bags aren’t packed correctly.

He vaguely promises himself to keep an eye out, though he leaves the house so rarely that an offer would literally have to drop into his lap for it to happen.

---

He's just escaped his personal hell, said grocery store, with his customary single bag. Namjoon stops by the wall a ways from the front door. A quick rummage through the bag yields a cool, glass bottle. Namjoon cracks open the cap of his one indulgence: strawberry lemonade. There's nothing better than slowly sipping on it on the way home while the rest of him sweats and he subtly stares into everyone's open windows to see what they're up to. This always makes him feel slightly guilty, but it’s not his fault they don't close their curtains.

There’s something addicting about glimpsing people’s normal lives, like looking at the frozen frames of a movie. He sees a lot of TVs, some dogs barking and pawing at the windowpane, the sound muffled but still audible. He thinks about his own blank wall. He always moves on.

It’s past time he heads home. Namjoon quickly looks around him. There’s no one staring at him or even paying him the least attention. Before he steps away, however, a sprawling corkboard catches his eye. It’s a free space for community fliers, from a local co-op, to a knitting class, to "a lonely man looking for a lady love." One particular corner of the board stands out from the rest. There are three fliers that announce they're looking for new employees: a local bookstore, an ice cream shop, and the community college is desperately recruiting tutors for any and all subjects.

Taking a swig of his lemonade, Namjoon steps closer until he can make out the small text amongst the riot of colors and overlapping papers. The tutoring job is straight out; he doesn't have any transferable skills, at least none that are taught from a textbook.

The other two are marginally more appealing. They're both sales jobs, but he can't afford to be choosy, and neither are retail. Glancing surreptitiously to either side, Namjoon tugs the tacks from the tattered corners of both fliers and folds the sheets into neat squares, which he slips into his back pocket.

Home is a welcome sight after braving the bustle of the grocery store. Namjoon pulls out his key ring to let himself in and is distracted by the tacky, battered keychain that was already attached when the realtor gave it to him. It’s a rubber smiley face. When he first saw it, the smiley didn’t leave much of an impact on his numb brain. Now he likes to think of it as a good omen. He returns the dumb thing’s smile.

After dinner, he exchanges jeans for a pair of comfortable sweat pants.

The fliers crinkle as he folds his jeans. He retrieves them as he settles down in the pool of three blankets that serve as a bed in the corner and carefully smooths them out in the dim light of the setting sun filtering through the window.

On top is The Scoop. The flier is a disorganized mess, obviously done by hand in neon marker. They’re looking for a “scoop-tastic” employee who can “toss frozen dairy products like they’ve insulted your mother!” The picture is a stylized cartoon of an employee chucking scoops of ice cream like MLB fastballs at excited children’s sugar cones. All in all, it sounds a little too exciting.

The other flier is newer. It’s less creased and bearing fewer holes in the corners. In restrained handwriting, it declares that The Pied Piper, a used book store, is looking for a full-time book lover to help organize, record, and stock inventory and work the cash register. Depending on their long-term plans, the new hire may be trained to appraise and purchase used books on behalf of the store.

Namjoon traces a finger down the paper, over the grainy picture of a humble storefront, and down to the phone number listed at the bottom. They’re open 9-6 every day but Sunday and Monday. It’s Friday. It was just before five when he left the grocery store, a fact he knows thanks to the upset woman on the phone in front of him in line. If he hurries, he’ll be able to call and ask about the job before they close for the day.

It’s with this now unusual urgency burning in his veins that Namjoon reaches his hand out to grab his phone.

A phone he realizes he doesn’t have, dropping his hand and feeling foolish. He has no means of communication and public-use phones are relics of the past.

Exhaling hard, Namjoon violently throws the flier away and turns to face the wall, yanking the blankets over his shoulders. The paper flutters and lands with a quiet sound in the otherwise silent room. Without a phone, without friends or family, without a job, he’s practically a non-person. Does he even exist on this ty, hot street, in this ugly house, in a town that no one’s heard of?

Any minute, he’s going to wake up encased in silk sheets, a millstone of horrific guilt and responsibility dragging him into the dirt. His designer suits will be hanging in his closet, in order of dark to light. The fabric will settle over his shoulders, soft and tailored, draping him in darkness and class. Yoongi will be waiting in his office, prim and restrained behind blank, shuttered eyes. He sees his favorite handgun and he mentally takes it apart step by step, cleaning the moving parts, and reassembling it without a pause. The sharp recoil presses against his calloused hands while the sound echoes in his ears, he shakes the hand of shark-like Kwon Jiyong, “It’s taken care of, Mr. Kim,” the mirror, the sink, the traitorous creases in his hands, the damning space beneath his fingernails.

Namjoon rips the blankets off and flings himself into the middle of the room. The flier crumples beneath his knee. Panting, he rocks back and snatches it. Before he fully comprehends what’s happening, he’s shoving abused sneakers onto his feet, clutching his keys so hard the teeth imprint into the fleshy meat of his palm, shoving a crocheted kitten into his pocket, and marching down Saguaro Avenue in his kitten t-shirt and sweatpants like he’s being pulled steadily on a string.

The Pied Piper is three blocks west of the grocery store. Its storefront is weathered, tan brick, exactly like every other business in the area. The name sweeps across the front window and above the door in curving, gilded letters. Namjoon has no idea what time it is, but the lights are on. Without giving himself a chance to back out, he pulls the door open, flier still in hand, and steps inside.

The lighting is dimmer than the outside suggested. The droopy black awnings over the windows cut most of the sunlight. The bookshelves tower to beams visible in the ceiling and leave a narrow aisle down the middle that ends in a gloomy counter that’s currently unattended. Multicolored stacks of books crowd the bottom of the bookshelves, leaving little room to walk.

Back then, he never would’ve entered a space like this. There are too many hidden angles and not enough room to maneuver. He’s vulnerable here and it makes him itch. Reigning himself in, he squares his shoulders and heads deeper into the store.

Folksy music gently wafts from the direction of the back counter. It’s clear The Pied Piper inhabits an old building, with its slightly uneven floor and badly placed lighting. When he gets close enough, he can see a boom box perched on top of a tower of tattered, cloth-bound encyclopedias from the 1950s. This arrangement takes up half of the back counter while the other half occupied by an ancient cash register, leaving scant room for customers to put their purchases.

Namjoon pries the slightly damp flier from his hand and unfolds it, standing in front of the register. He unconsciously tries to smooth the paper out and then puts it down when he realizes what he’s doing. Namjoon does not fidget.

He’s breathing out in a steady stream, trying to smother his nerves, when someone appears behind the counter. Though Namjoon didn’t see him step in, the man likely came from the tightly packed shelves that jut behind the counter.

“Hello,” the stranger says. He’s got big glasses, a hair color that’s difficult to determine under the dim, yellow lights, a rumpled sweater, and a slight smile. Before Namjoon can respond, his eyes narrow and he follows the greeting with, “The Awakening, Kate Chopin.”

“What?” Namjoon says.

The man disappears behind a bookshelf, reappears next to Namjoon, easily skirts around him without as much as brushing his shirtsleeve, and disappears into the stacks. Not a minute later he emerges with a paperback novel that’s in good condition apart from the creased spine and slightly curled corners. It’s thick, with a cover in two shades of blue and a black and white picture of a lady in a dress and large hat, like she’s posing for a Victorian Era pinup.

The novel is pressed into Namjoon’s hands. The man reappears behind the counter.

“Uh, thanks.”

The man waits expectantly.

Ignoring the sudden knowledge that’s he dressed in his pajamas, Namjoon determinedly scoots the creased flier across the counter and into the other man’s line of sight. “I came to apply for this job.”

“Ah.”

The man taps on the flyer a few times, face contemplative. Their eyes meet and Namjoon isn’t sure how to interpret the look he’s getting. It’s searching, maybe. Namjoon tries not to make a weird expression and looks back.

The moment breaks when the man turns, grabs a folding chair, and heaves it over the counter. Surprised, Namjoon leans over to take it from him. Following the man’s next gesture, he sets it up on the other side of the counter. With a screech, the man drags a stool over and settles in while Namjoon sits. The counter is a little too high for this to be comfortable.

“My name is Lee Donghae. I own The Pied Piper. Why do you want to work here?”

Namjoon’s suspicions are confirmed the same time anxiety begins to swirl. For some reason his brain didn’t get much further than “applying for the job.” Now he’s at the beginning of an interview with the owner in a kitten shirt and a worryingly blank space in his head. It's to Donghae's benefit that he doesn't exude an aura of charisma or authority in his wrinkly, eggplant-colored sweater and disheveled hair. Namjoon is stressed, but won’t lash out even if he feels a little cornered.

What can he say that makes him sound the least bit desirable as an employee? He can make a man piss his pants with a few pointed words or scream in pain without leaving any permanent marks.

The music changes to a song that features the banjo.

Namjoon glances down at The Awakening, which is still sitting between them on the counter, and runs a thumb over the spine. It reminds him of the book waiting on the windowsill back home.

“I’m reading The Candle-Maker’s Daughter. By Marcella Kints,” he says. “It’s the first book I’ve read in years, longer than I can remember. I want…” he stutters to a stop. What does he want? To survive? To pay his rent and buy groceries and sit at home with his fake animals and his mysterious neighbor while the only sound is his voice bouncing off empty walls?

“I want…more than that.” It doesn’t even make sense after his last sentence and Namjoon hardly knows what he means, but it feels right. He wants more.

That searching look is back on Donghae’s face and he glances down at The Awakening. His expression is knowing, or expectant, or pleased. Namjoon can’t read him as well as he’d like. Donghae blinks slowly.

"Do you have any references?" he asks.

Namjoon almost laughs. There’s no one. Donghae already knows him better than anyone he’s met since he left the compound.

An idea strikes him. It’s absurd and more likely than not makes him sound like a psycho, but Namjoon pulls the kitten from his pocket and carefully sets it on top of the book. Mr. Kitten’s ear is bent, so Namjoon straightens it. “My neighbor made this and gave it to me.”

Instead of laughing and immediately telling Namjoon to leave, the unreadable Donghae inspects the kitten from his side of the counter. After a minute, he nods in two slow, drawn-out movements. Namjoon pockets Mr. Kitten.

“I can work any hours, any day you need me. I learn fast.”

The folk music quiets like the playlist has ended, leaving Namjoon and Donghae in silence. The flier crinkles beneath Donghae’s arm, but all he does is push the novel toward Namjoon. “Go home and read this. Let me know what you think.”

So Namjoon takes the book and the flier, which Donghae holds out to him. He passes the chair back over the counter and shakes Donghae’s hand. His grip is warm and dry and he doesn’t squeeze. 

Namjoon reads the book. He cries and there’s no one but his menagerie there to see it. He brings The Awakening back to Donghae.

This strange interview, unlike any Namjoon’s ever experienced, is how he gets the job at The Pied Piper.