At eleven, a white delivery van turned down the service road.

Its driver, a woman in a blue sweatshirt, carried two crates into the market’s storeroom.

I asked whether she knew a woman with twin babies who collected cans nearby.

The driver looked at the expensive watch on my wrist and took her time answering.

“Depends who’s asking.”

“Someone who owes her an apology.”

“That doesn’t narrow it down much.”

She introduced herself as Ruth Delaney.