Two dollars.
She walked to the register, where the young cashier was waiting.
Helen opened her small coin purse.
She began to count out the coins one by one onto the black conveyor belt.
“Just the bread today, Mrs. Carter?” the cashier asked.
“Yes, thank you,” Helen said softly.
She placed eight quarters beside the two dollar bills.
Her movements were deliberate and slow.
The register drawer opened with a sharp ding.
Helen felt the silent pressure of the days ticking away.
She tucked the folded blue paper into her purse, her hand shaking as she closed the brass clasp.
By nine o’clock the next morning, the smell of damp cedar drifted through the open kitchen window, heavy and cool from the night’s downpour.
Raymond sat at the wooden table, his muddy boots pulled back under his chair as if he wanted to occupy as little space as possible. He twisted his worn canvas cap between his grease-stained hands, his knuckles turning white under the grime.
