The sales floor was quiet.

A single customer was looking over snow shovels in aisle four, and soft country music played over the overhead speakers.

Tim was behind the main register, counting five-dollar bills out of drawer two into a gray canvas deposit bag.

He looked up and set the stack of bills down.

“Store closes in forty minutes, Mara,” Tim said.

“Gene’s out at a dinner till late.”

“I’m not here to shop, Tim,” I said.