A boy wearing puberty on his face greets me at the pizza counter. He asks for the order name and I give it.

“Are you one of the Kohl’s that sells like the furniture and stuff?’

I answer in a voice similar to one who has spent the day huffing paint and choking down gravel, “Oh, God, no. I’m the Kohl that sells orphan parts.”

Bodies shuffle behind him, but he stands stunned by the words or perhaps simply the otherworldly tone that said them.

“Oh, I buy too.”

Another pair of hands reaches from behind the counter and offers me my pizza. I think about sticking around, waiting for him to decide which side of horrified he should fall on.

Instead, I turn to the exit, leaving him stranded alone on his strange island of orphan parts and satanic voices in hoodies.

He might still be standing there. I really can’t say for sure.