She didn’t have a shopping cart.
She carried her few purchases in her hands.
When she joined my checkout line, four people were already waiting ahead of her.
I noticed her repeatedly examining the products she was holding.
Then she checked her phone.
Then looked at the products again.
Her lips moved as she silently calculated.
I knew that expression.
I’d worn it myself that very morning.
Directly behind her stood Dale Pruitt, who owned a small auto repair shop near the edge of town.
Dale wasn’t a cruel man.
But patience had never been one of his strengths.
He held a case of beer and a frozen pizza, and he looked increasingly annoyed by the baby’s cries.
Eventually, the woman reached my register.
“Good evening,” I said warmly. “Did you find everything you needed?”
“Yes, thank you.”
She placed three items on the conveyor belt.
A gallon of milk.
A container of baby formula.
And a package of size-two diapers.
The cheapest diapers we sold.
That was everything.
I glanced toward her infants.
“They’re adorable. Are they twins?”
She managed a tired smile.
“Yes. This noisy one is Noah. And the sleepy one is Eli.”
“Hello, Noah. Sounds like you’re having quite a day.”
Noah responded with another impressive scream.
His mother winced, then laughed weakly.
“He’s hungry, needs changing, and isn’t particularly happy with me.”
“Well, he’s certainly got powerful lungs.”
“Just like his father.”
Something changed in her expression when she said that.
For a brief moment, her face closed off.
I didn’t ask questions.
I scanned her groceries and gave her the total.
She tapped her bank card.
The terminal beeped.
Then a red message appeared.
**DECLINED.**
“Oh,” she murmured. “That can’t be right. Could I try again?”
“Of course.”
She tried a second time.
Her fingers were shaking.
Another beep.
Another rejection.
Behind her, Dale released an exaggerated sigh.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” he complained. “It’s Friday night.”
