She opened her wallet and pulled out a thin stack of bills.
I watched her count, lips moving. Her forehead creased. She checked another pocket. Then her little zipper pouch. Then, the back of her wallet, like money might appear if she believed hard enough.
Her shoulders sagged. “Oh no.”
“How much are you short?” I asked, trying to keep my voice soft.
“Six dollars. I’m really sorry. Can you cancel the formula? I’ll just take the rest.”
Her eyes stayed glued to the formula, like she couldn’t bear to look at me. The baby shifted, made a tiny sound, and relaxed again.
I’ve seen people put things back a lot. Steaks. Snacks. Even medicine. But formula? That wasn’t something you could skip out on.
I reached into my apron pocket and pulled out my tips from the day. Wrinkled bills, mostly ones. I peeled off six dollars and slid the money toward the register.
“I’ve got it.”
Her head snapped up. “What? No, no, you don’t have to—”
“I know. I want to. Keep the formula.”
“I can pay you back,” she rushed out. “Next time I—”
“You don’t have to pay me back. Really. Just take your groceries. Go home. Sleep if you can.”
Her eyes filled so fast it threw me. “Thank you. You have no idea.”
She hugged the baby tighter, wiped her face, grabbed the bag, and headed for the doors. The automatic doors slid open, cold air rushed in, and then she was gone.
I dropped my six dollars into the till, finished closing, clocked out, and went home. By the time I microwaved leftovers and crawled into bed, it already felt like a small blip in a long shift. Six bucks. Whatever.
“You’re in trouble.”
