“I hate to ask,” Thomas said carefully, “but my little girl is sick. I need an advance. I will make it up with extra hours.”
There was a long pause on the other end of the line.
“I wish I could help,” his supervisor replied. “You know I would if it were up to me, but it is not.”
Thomas thanked him anyway and ended the call, staring at the phone as if it had personally betrayed him.
That evening, as Lila slept fitfully, Thomas sat at the kitchen table, his hands clasped so tightly that his knuckles hurt. He had never stolen anything in his life. He had never even taken a pen from work without asking. Yet every option he considered ended in the same place, a sick child and no medicine.
The pharmacy on Willow Street was warm and bright, filled with the low hum of conversation and the soft beeping of registers. Thomas walked in with his head down, moving quickly through the aisles. He found the medicine Lila needed and checked the price, his chest tightening as he did the math in his head.
He waited. He watched. When no one seemed to be looking, he slipped the small box into his jacket pocket and turned toward the door, forcing himself not to run.
A firm hand stopped him.