Register Three
At register three, an old man stood at the counter with a basket of basics.
Milk. Bread. Eggs. A can of soup.
And two bags of dog food.
At his feet sat the sweetest little terrier I’d ever seen.
She wore a red bandana, tail tucked but eyes alert—like she was trained to expect disappointment.
The cashier’s voice had that strained, overly polite tone.
“Sir, are you sure you want to remove that?”
The line behind him stretched halfway down the aisle.
People were huffing. Checking their phones. Performing that public impatience that’s really just cruelty in business-casual packaging.
“Just take off the milk,” the old man said. His voice shook. “How much is it now?”
The cashier rescanned everything. “$17.43, sir.”
He swallowed, then pulled the bread away like it was something dangerous.
“The bread too. Check it again.”
A man in a puffy winter coat threw his hands up.
“Are we gonna be here all day? Some of us have jobs!”
A woman behind him added, louder than necessary, “This is ridiculous. Just pay or leave.”
The old man stared at the bills in his hands—crumpled ones and singles, counted and recounted like he could make them multiply.
He was aiming for exactly $15.50.
Then store security showed up.
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