Then he went back to his column of numbers, humming.

He never hummed.

By Wednesday afternoon, the only thing under the pineapple magnet was a clean spot the shape of a ticket.

I stood in the kitchen doorway with two bags of groceries against my hip, my thumb working the side of my index finger.

The magnet hung where it always hung, its little green leaves bright against the white door of the refrigerator.

Under it, nothing.