I read the rest of the email twice. Sheldon had written that I was the most reliable employee he had ever hired, but that reliability was not the same as character. He wanted to know how I behaved when there was nothing to gain. Camille admitted she had gone along with it, and she had been cold in the car to see whether I would get impatient or angry. She said she was ashamed of the trick.

I told her I was not angry at her. I was, however, a little hurt at her father. I said I had agreed to take her to prom for the extra money, and I had meant to be kind either way, but I understood why he needed to know. Camille laughed, relieved, and said the truth was that the boy who backed out had never existed. Then she took my arm and asked whether I would still like to dance.

We danced most of the night. She introduced me to her friends as the nicest coworker her father had ever had, and I fixed a broken strap on her shoe with a safety pin from my jacket. At eleven, I drove her home exactly as promised, walked her to the door, and shook Sheldon’s hand without mentioning the email. He looked at me for a long moment, then nodded slowly, and I saw him swallow.

Two months later, Sheldon called me into his office and slid a contract across the desk. He was selling me the shop at a fair price, with a loan he arranged himself and the first year’s payments waived. My mom cried when I told her. Camille went off to college, and we still text every week. I still run the shop, and I still stay late, but now the sign over the door has my name.