“Let’s go to the register,” I said.

The young man at the front counter didn’t look up from his car magazine when I set the things down on the scratched glass case.

He punched a few buttons on his ancient mechanical register.

The machine clattered loudly in the quiet shop.

“Four dollars for the worn shawl,” the clerk said.

“Five for the shirt and the shoes.

Nine dollars altogether.”

I gave him a crisp twenty-dollar bill.