The boy standing ahead of me at the checkout counter was carefully counting coins when he spoke a sentence that altered the atmosphere of the entire store, because conversations stalled, impatience evaporated, and even the soft hum of fluorescent lights seemed to retreat beneath the fragile weight of his voice.
“I need the teddy bear today,” he said, his words trembling with urgency. “My brother’s funeral is tomorrow.”
He could not have been older than eight, and his oversized hoodie hung loosely from narrow shoulders, while his hair, though combed, carried the unevenness of effort without skill. Resting on the counter was a small plush bear, inexpensive and slightly crooked, the sort of toy most customers would toss casually into a basket without a second thought.