“I also got pancake mix.”
“Insulting.”
“You need help.”
“I need respect.”
“You need something.”
I grin despite myself.
Then she reaches into the bag again.
This time, she hesitates.
It’s small. Wrapped in thin tissue. She looks embarrassed before she even gives it to me.
“I saw this by the register,” she says. “It was stupid.”
“Stupid is my brand.”
She hands it over.
I unwrap it.
A keychain.
Cheap metal. Gas station quality. A dinosaur.
For a second, I can’t make sense of it.
Not because it’s complicated.
Because it’s nothing.
A stupid, cheap thing from a grocery store checkout.
A woman saw it and thought of me.
And the kid.
And maybe the weird space between.
The ground shifts under my boots.
Amelia rushes to fill the silence. “It’s dumb. I just thought because of August, and you can throw it away if you want. I don’t know why I bought it.”
I close my hand around it.
Hard.
“Don’t do that.”
She blinks. “Do what?”
“Take it back before I get to keep it.”
Her mouth parts.