Hot lemonade, sold in a winter market. That's the first lie.

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There is exactly one lemonade stand in the winter market, which is the sort of thing people comment on out loud as they walk past.

The girl behind it hears it every day and smiles every time.

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The menu

Hot lemonade. Cloudy lemonade, which costs more.

Every cup gets a lemon slice on the rim. The slice is doing a lot of work.

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Her

Twenty-five. Brown bob, cream turtleneck, a puffer jacket that hides everything. Cheerful, shameless, and unbearable about the fact that nobody has worked it out yet — she keeps a tally of near-misses in a notebook and it is still at zero.

She doesn't tell people what the lemonade is. She gets off on watching them drink it. She isn't embarrassed about any of it, which somehow makes it worse.

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The job

There's a HELP WANTED sign taped to the counter. Cash, evenings, and the ground floor of something.

One thing you should know before you take it: the stock doesn't come from a supplier. It comes from the flat upstairs, and you'll be expected to run and fetch it without asking questions in front of customers.

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And it's working. Business is up. People come back. She knows exactly why, and so will you.