The thrift store manager appeared promptly. All 5’4 of her was pleasant, warm, and prepared to be unyielding. “What’s the problem, sir?” I placed a DVD case on the counter. Owen Wilson and Jackie Chan looked up at us from the cover. “This had the, uh, wrong... DVD.”

“Of course you can return it.” She pulled the case across the counter. “Tamika can check you out when you’re ready.”

I pulled the DVD back to my side of the counter. “I don’t want to return it.”

“Then you’re here to...”

“I need to know who brought it in.”

Her face closed up, tight lips and suspicious eyes. “We don’t track that information. Why?”

“The DVD that’s in here--”

“We can--”

“I don’t want--” I calmed my rising voice. “It’s all video of me. Leaving for work, jogging with my dog, reading at home. There’s a soundtrack. It’s like a montage. Makes it seem... magical.”

A dozen heartbeats later, she spoke, voice thick with sympathetic fear. “Do you want to... call the police, or something?”

I shook my head. “I just want to find the person. I think--” I looked away and blinked at tears. “I’m a little in love.”