He had Down syndrome.
He was surrounded by broken bottles.
Juice. Ocean Spray. Cranberry and grape. The big sixty-four-ounce glass ones. At least eight of them. Shattered across the linoleum. Red and purple juice spreading out in a wide sticky pool. Shards of glass everywhere. Glittering under the fluorescent lights.
The stock cart was tipped at an angle. One of its wheels had come off the floor. The cardboard case on the top shelf of the cart was crushed and soaked.
Henry was standing in the middle of it.
His sneakers were wet. There was purple juice splashed up the legs of his khakis.
He was holding his hands up in front of him. Palms out. Like he was trying to stop something.
“I’m so sorry, ma’am,” he said. “I’m sorry. I’ll clean it up. I’ll clean it up right now.”
His voice was shaking.
The woman was standing about six feet away from him.
