The girl at the counter had her hair pulled back with a blue cloth ribbon.

“Are these for your kitchen table today, Miss Doll?” she asked.

“No, Sheila,” I said.

“They’re for the stone out behind the church.”

“That’s three dollars and twenty-four cents with tax.”

She scanned the tag, and the register gave one sharp beep that carried down the grocery aisle.

“Your mother’s birthday is this Friday, isn’t it?” she asked, reaching for my money.

“That was three days ago,” I said.