Thirty-Nine Million Dollars and a Brown Folder on the Kitchen Table

I walked across the asphalt and pulled a metal cart from the return corral.

The front glass doors slid open.

The store was quiet.

The bright fluorescent lights hummed overhead.

A few older couples walked slowly down the produce aisle.

I took out my phone and checked Helen’s list again.

She wanted wheat bread.

She needed a pound of unsalted butter.