I was working the late shift when it happened—the slow, fluorescent-lit hours when your feet ache and your mind drifts. The store was nearly empty. Just the soft hum of refrigerators and the beeping of the register now and then.
That’s when I saw her.
She couldn’t have been more than sixteen. Thin. Pale. Hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands. She hovered near the candy aisle, glancing toward the counter every few seconds. I noticed the way her hands shook as she slipped a small bag of wrapped candies into her pocket.
I stepped out from behind the register.
“Hey,” I said gently. “You need to pay for that.”
She froze like a startled animal. Slowly, she turned around. For a second, I expected her to run. Instead, her face crumpled. Her knees buckled, and she burst into tears right there on the linoleum floor.
“I’m sorry,” she sobbed, words tumbling over each other. “I didn’t mean to—I just—I don’t have any money.”
I crouched down so we were at eye level. “Why the candy?”
She clutched the bag like it was priceless.
“These are my mom’s favorite,” she whispered. “She’s dying. The doctors said it’s only a few days now. She hasn’t been able to eat much, but she always liked these. I just wanted to give her something sweet before she goes.”
Continued on next page:
