I opened the fridge. No milk.
Checked the bread box. One sad heel.
“Of course,” I muttered.
“I’m going to the store,” I called out. “Nobody open the door. Nobody touch the stove. Nobody jump off anything.”
Every line at the store was long. Every single one.
Emma tried to tag along. “Can we come?” she asked, already halfway to the door.
“Not this time, baby. I’ll be ten minutes,” I said.
The grocery store was a fluorescent, cold nightmare. Carts clanking, people grumbling. I grabbed the cheapest loaf of bread and a gallon of milk and headed for the front.
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