The following morning, the store was slammed. People grabbing coffee, cereal, and way too many energy drinks. I clocked in, tied my apron, and took my spot at register three.
Scan. Beep. Bag. Smile.
“Rewards card?”
“Paper or plastic?”
I was halfway through ringing up a guy with a cart full of junk food when the loudspeaker crackled.
“Amelia to the manager’s office. Amelia, please come to the manager’s office. It’s urgent.”
The customer smirked. “Uh oh. You’re in trouble.”
“Story of my life,” I joked weakly.
Never what you want to hear at work.
I finished his order, called a coworker to cover my lane, and headed to the back.
Her face. My money on the counter. The camera overhead.
I knocked on the office door.
“Come in,” my manager called.
He was at his desk, glasses on, staring at his computer. He looked up when I walked in.
“You wanted to see me?”
“Yeah. Close the door and sit down for a sec.”
Never what you want to hear at work.
I sat. He clicked something, then turned his monitor toward me.
Grainy security footage filled the screen.
My register. The woman. The baby.
Me pulling cash from my pocket.
We watched in silence as I slid my money across the counter. He hit pause.
“Did you cover part of a customer’s groceries last night?”
My face went hot. “Yes. She was short, and it was for baby formula. It was my money, not the store’s. I know it’s probably against policy, and I’m sorry, I just—”
He held up a hand.
“Am I in trouble?”
“I’m not mad. We’re technically not supposed to do that. But that’s not why I called you in.”
“Oh.”
He opened a drawer and pulled out a plain white envelope. He set it on the desk between us.
“This was left for you this morning. She came back and asked me to give it to you.”
My name was written on the front in neat handwriting. Amelia.
“You didn’t read it?”
He shook his head. “Not my business. You can open it here or later. Just wanted to make sure you got it.”
“Am I in trouble?” I still asked, because anxiety doesn’t listen.
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