Her navy bank cardigan was buttoned up to her throat, her hair set in tight gray curls.

“That stuff will take the skin right off your hands if you don’t wear heavy rubber gloves, Becky,” Marge said.

“I’ve got work gloves in the shed out back,” I said.

I picked up two blue plastic washtubs and set them in her cart line with two round wire kitchen strainers.

Marge tapped her ballpoint on the metal rim of her cart handle.

“Thursday afternoon Dale was standing at my drive-through window.