Emma loved bookstores. The intoxicating smell reminded her of the library in her late parents’ house: the sweet scent of all things lost. On the last Friday of every month there was a reading at the nearest store. Emma always made sure she got a seat at the front. No matter how boring the presented book was, she listened attentively. Determined, she fought down the nausea rising from her empty stomach. As the applause faded, she was the first at the buffet, hoping nobody would notice how her bony fingers trembled as she stuffed her moth-eaten purse with precious hors d’oeuvres.