He blinked.

“You want to hand me the fact that you think about it,” I said. “So that I’m carrying it and you’re not. I’m not taking it. Think about them all you want.

It’s yours.”

And I pushed my cart past him and bought tomatoes and drove home and sat in the driveway for eleven minutes shaking.

He left without buying anything. I watched him go past the window of the store, out through the lot, empty-handed, and I did not feel one single thing I could use.

Michael’s parole hearing was on the ninth of June.