The plastic gallon of milk on the counter was already sweating in the morning heat, but it was the five-dollar price tag printed on the yellow cap that made Maria Teresa Morales rub her temple.
She smoothed the three crumpled dollar bills on the kitchen table, counting the quarters beside them.
“We can skip the eggs this week,” Ana said, reaching for her canvas tote bag.
Maria Teresa sat on the overturned red plastic milk crate by the pantry, checking her purse one more time. The plastic grid of the crate pressed into her thighs, a familiar stiffness she welcomed on heavy mornings.
“The milk is almost gone,” Maria Teresa said, her voice slow and deliberate. “We need the milk for the little ones.”
Ana smiled, her silver cross necklace catching the low blue light from the window air conditioner.
“I will run to the Quick-Stop before the diesel buses start clogging the avenue,” Ana said.
“Take your brother with you,” Maria Teresa said.
“Jorge is still asleep, Mom, and the sun is barely over the fence.” Ana kissed her cheek, her skin warm and smelling of lemon soap. “I will be back in ten minutes.”
She said she would only be gone ten minutes.
By eleven o’clock, the heat outside was ninety-four degrees, and the small kitchen had grown completely quiet.
Maria Teresa walked down Juarez Street, her vinyl slippers sticking slightly to the softening asphalt of the road.
The parking lot of the Quick-Stop was nearly empty, save for a municipal water truck idling near the dumpster.
She found the paper near the rusty blue telephone booth at the corner of the lot.
It was a small scrap of lined notebook paper, folded twice, resting in a dry puddle of motor oil.
On the back, written in Ana’s neat, rounded hand, was the single word for milk.
There was no sign of the canvas tote bag, and the gravel nearby was undisturbed.
The store clerk behind the counter did not look up from his small television set, which was casting a flickering blue glow over the cigarette racks.
