After the medicine the insurance line said they would “review,” like a six-year-old’s lungs had time to wait for paperwork.
The woman behind me looked me up and down like she already knew my whole life.
My scrub pants.
My old sweatshirt.
The dark circles under my eyes.
The little card I had used for the discount rack.
She laughed under her breath and said it again, louder this time, so the cashier could hear.
“Some people got it made. Shop all day, live off handouts all night.”
My face got hot.
Not because I was ashamed.
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