Excerpt from Returns and Exchanges by Kayla Rae Whitaker, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"So you've mentioned." She grabbed the closedown checklist and went into the shelves. Hot Wheels up top, Big Wheels down below. They typically aimed to keep overstock at a minimum, but the toys: they could not be caught short this week, not at this branch, on this side of town, the disposable income side of town. Fred started again: "We got the next board meeting in two weeks. We could—"

The doors flew open. "Ow," Birdie yelled.

Benny: "Not like that, dingus. You gotta, like, pitch it." A thock. Boxes toppling to the floor. Her youngest two were winging those high jumpers at each other again, the superballs they sold for a dime apiece in the vending machine by the cart stand alongside gum and yo–yos that snapped and sailed treacherously free within an hour of use. Another cry, another deflection from Benny: "That one was your fault. You got in the way."

"Y'all quit," Fred bawled.

Fran refolded the checklist. "Honey. Could you go straighten? Please?"

"Right." Fred looked down to find himself still holding the Rubik's Cube. He placed it on a shelf and turned, telling the kids "Quieten down" as he left.

Fran retrieved the Rubik's Cube, craned out. "I told you all to quit that. You're gonna break something."

Birdie lowered her throwing hand. She was seven, still little enough to be sorry. Benny was ten, let his arms hang by his sides. "When do we get to leave?"

"Not long. After closedown."

He huffed. "We still have closedown?"

"When have we not had closedown?" Fran rolled past them: dump trucks, dreamhouses. More of those Penny P. Buckle dolls that pissed themselves when you pressed the navel. When she turned, Benny was staring at her reproachfully. Fran snapped her fingers, held one hand out. "Give it, please."

He sighed. Slapped two superballs into her hand.

"That it?"

"Yes."

It wasn't. But Fran held up a finger. Fixed Benny, then Birdie, with an unblinking gaze. "Behave. I mean it."

Through the double doors (on the wall: a framing of the Herald article from when they'd opened this branch: she and Fred, arm in arm in front of the Baker–Taylor's placard with all four kids in tow—Josiah and Sam sedate, but toddler Birdie poised to bite Benny, who held a pair of rabbit 's ears above her head) and back onto the floor. She took a pen out of her pocket and scrawled a note on her hand—Call vending on the 26th—then surveyed the central power walk, the sale items facing out, pegboard trimmed with ribbons and garlands. Empty. Extended holiday hours were a tall order for Lexington, a city that shut down entirely the night before Christmas, its population relegated to home or church services. There was the faint hum of holiday music, a reel–to–reel played on repeat every single day since November 23. Tinny renditions of "Silver Bells" and "White Christmas" she now heard perpetually, just south of her actual thoughts. Like to drive you crazy, and she wasn't the only one. She'd heard Sam in the kitchen that morning humming the one about roasting chestnuts, perfectly mimicking the warp in the tape that smeared Jack Frost nooo–ipping at your nose.

She motioned to Josiah to shut off the reel–to–reel. It cut mid–note. Gauzy silence.

Gerald yawned, shoved hands into the pockets of his coat, taking long strides. He reached the front doors and locked them. "Gerald," Fran called out, and produced the envelope from her pocket. "Merry Christmas. Thanks for taking the new shift. I can do walk–through."

"Thanks, Mrs. Taylor." He lofted a hand to them all as he strode toward the back.

Fred had passed straightening duties on to Josiah and Sam, who were edging along, nudging stock to the front ("Neatly," went the refrain, all through their childhoods, "all in a row like this, see?"). From the parking lot, the phantom sounds of sedan doors buckling shut, engines chopping to life. Like magic: Fran could feel her blood pressure ticking down.

Excerpted from Returns and Exchanges by Kayla Rae Whitaker. Copyright © 2026 by Kayla Rae Whitaker. Excerpted by permission of Random House. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.