For a second, I thought she might cry right there. She nodded quickly, grabbed the bag with her free hand, and hurried out into the cold night. Through the window, I watched her clutch that little boy tight as she got into an old sedan that looked like it had seen better days.
Then she was gone, and the station went quiet again.
The next week passed like all the others. I worked my shifts, came home tired, and tried to help Lydia with dinner when I could stay awake long enough. We didn’t talk much about money anymore because there wasn’t much point. We both knew the situation, and talking about it just made it feel heavier.
It was the following Thursday when my manager, Mr. Jenkins, called me into his office. He’s a decent guy in his mid-50s.
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“Ross, did you cover someone’s groceries last Friday night?” he asked, leaning against his desk with his arms crossed.
My mind raced. Had I broken some rule? Were they going to make a big deal out of four dollars?
“Yeah, I did,” I said, feeling my face get warm. “I’m sorry if that was against policy. I paid for it myself, I put my own money in the register—”