Dan’s eyes were wet. “I’m just trying to run a grocery store,” he said. “I’m just trying to keep my employees safe.”
I stared at the shelf.
At the mom who now moved away quickly, head down.
At the donors who pretended they weren’t watching her.
At the watchers who pretended they weren’t judging.
At the phones.
Always the phones.
“Move it,” I said.
Dan blinked. “What?”
“Move the shelf,” I said. “Not take it down. Move it somewhere it doesn’t belong to the store. Somewhere it belongs to the neighborhood.”
Dan exhaled. “Like where?”
I thought of Maya.
Of her hands shaking over a can of formula.
Of a baby named Eli.
I said, “The community center on Maple,” I told him. “The one with the bulletin board and the old basketball court. People already go there. Make it a pantry. Make it boring. Make it not a show.”
Dan stared at me like I’d suggested building a spaceship.
“That’s… actually not a bad idea,” he admitted.
“It’s the only idea I’ve got,” I said.
Dan swallowed. “If we do that,” he said, “people will say we caved. People will say we gave up.”
“They can say whatever they want,” I said. “Let them argue in comments. Let them type until their fingers hurt. Babies still have to eat.”
Dan nodded slowly.