I didn’t notice the receipt at first. Self-checkout spits out so many little slips—paper tails that flutter and make you feel like you’ve accomplished something even when you’ve only survived the fluorescent jungle. I was still juggling a carton of eggs and trying not to crush the bread when I felt a tap on my elbow. “Excuse me—hey! You dropped this.” A woman with wind-reddened cheeks held my receipt like a tiny white flag. Her smile was quick, almost apologetic, as if she was worried I would think she was intruding. “Oh! Thanks,” I said, grabbing it one-handed while tucking...
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