When she opened them, she forced herself to move again.
She’d figure it out. She always did. That was what kept her upright. The constant, quiet determination not to fall apart because if she fell, there was no safety net waiting below.
She made her way toward the registers.
That was when she saw him.
At first it was just the dog that caught her attention—a scruffy, medium-sized mutt pressed close to a man’s leg, tail flicking in slow, cautious sweeps. Not wagging like a happy dog. More like a dog trying to reassure itself the world was still safe.
Then she saw the man.
He was elderly, stooped, as if his spine had grown tired of holding him up. His coat was worn, frayed at the cuffs, thinning at the elbows. The kind of coat that had survived more winters than it was designed for. His hair was gray and unkempt, his cheeks hollow, his eyes tired in a way that looked older than his face.
He stood at the register with a small pile of groceries: a can of beans, a bag of rice, a loaf of bread. Nothing extra. Nothing sweet. Nothing that didn’t count.
The cashier scanned the items with the bored efficiency of someone who had done this a thousand times today.
The total came up.
