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“I don’t care,” he snapped. “You charged me wrong. Fix it.
That’s your job.”
I felt a hot burning in my chest, the one that shows up whenever someone talks to a service worker like they’re furniture.
I left my cart in the middle of the aisle and walked over before I could talk myself out of it.
“Hey,” I said, loud enough to cut into his rant. “You need to calm down.”
He turned on me like I’d just slapped him.
“Mind your business,” he snapped. “She screwed up.
I’m not paying extra because she can’t read.”
“She explained the sale,” I said. “You misread the sign. That doesn’t make her your punching bag.”
Jenna whispered, “It’s okay, really,” but her eyes were shiny, like she was used to swallowing this kind of thing.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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