I swallowed the lump in my throat.
” actually, ma’am,” I lied. “The system glitched. You’re our 100th customer today. It’s on the house.”
She paused. “Are you sure? I don’t want you to get in trouble.”
“I’m the manager,” I lied again. “Keep the change.”
I set the pizza on her lap. She opened the box and the steam hit her face. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, a tear tracing a line through the wrinkles on her cheek.
I walked back to my car.
I didn’t turn the key.
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I sat there for a minute, gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white.
I texted my dispatch: Flat tire. Need 45 minutes.
I drove to the big-box store down the road.
I didn’t grab junk.
I grabbed the stuff that matters.
Milk. Eggs. A loaf of soft bread. Cans of soup with the pull-tabs so she doesn’t need a can opener. Bananas. Oatmeal. And a warm rotisserie chicken.
I ran back to the house.
When I walked in, she was on her second slice, eating with a hunger that scared me.
I started unpacking the bags on her kitchen table.
She stopped chewing. The slice dropped from her hand.
“What… what is this?” she asked.
“My grandma lives three states away,” I said, putting the milk in the fridge. “She lives alone on a fixed income, too. I just hope if she’s ever sitting in the dark, someone does this for her.”
She tried to wheel herself over to me, but she couldn’t make it past the rug.
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