I walked straight to my old pickup.

It was parked right next to Ranata’s expensive black SUV.

The contrast between her flawless paint job and my rusted fender had always felt like a long-running family joke.

It wasn’t a joke anymore.

I opened the passenger door and set the bags on the torn vinyl seat.

The heavy milk jug settled against the small bottle of cinnamon creamer.

The thin plastic bags rustled loudly against the cracked upholstery.