They were imported goat cheese, smoked gouda and a jar of fancy fig preserves.

Beside them lay two packs of sliced prosciutto and a bakery box of fresh tarts.

I rolled my cart forward until its rubber bumper rested near the edge of her basket.

“Hi, Tasha,” I said.

Tasha jumped a little and dropped her hand from her collar.

Madison didn’t look up from her phone.

“Oh, Jodi,” Tasha said.

Her voice switched instantly to the sweet, high pitch she used around town.