The bookstore felt different. On a normal day, Ferris could find comfort in the walls of hardcovers, the texture of paper under his fingers, and the muted rustling of pages. There was always something new was he was bored, something old when he needed a fix of nostalgia....

Ferris’ dreams had been mostly sounds. A heartbeat pounded like a knocker on a door. There was the crunch of snow, the sound of glass—a wine bottle, tumbling onto a sidewalk. His own voice. “You’re drunk.”...