Caleb’s fingers tightened around the edge of the counter.
“I come in every week,” he said. “It’s been there a long time.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Mr. Briggs replied. “It’s priced fair. I can’t knock seventy-five dollars off. That’s not how business works.”
Caleb felt his chest grow heavy. He had rehearsed this moment in his head a hundred times, imagined different outcomes, imagined maybe a smile, maybe a small nod of kindness.
Instead, the words felt final.
“I could clean the store,” he offered quickly. “Or help carry stuff. I don’t mind working.”
Mr. Briggs shook his head.
“Kid, I’m not running a charity.”
The words landed harder than he expected.
Caleb slowly began gathering the money back into the envelope, trying to keep his hands steady so no one would see them shake.
