Sometimes taking pride in the small victories is all one can do. I know that lesson far too well.

4

A few minutes later, I stand in front of the deli, my hands shaking from the cold. Two girls from AAAS are lingering outside, underneath the deli’s awning, shielding themselves from the rain. One of them gives me a sympathetic look as I head inside, which does nothing for my awful mood.

“Do you have bell peppers?” I ask the man behind a counter.

He nods, pointing me toward the back of the store. A rack of umbrellas hangs behind his head—something to come back for.

“Thank you,” I say, relief rushing through me. I ignore the buzz of my phone in my pocket. I don’t need another reminder of how late I’m running.

The bell above the door rings again as I make my way toward the produce aisle, but I don’t look over my shoulder, focused on my task—not until I hear a British accent ask, “Do you have a map?”

I swivel around in disbelief. Is he following me?

But the boy is focused entirely on the man behind the counter. It almost looks like he’s trying to hide, his hood pulled up and his sleeves rolled all the way down.

I turn back around, resisting the urge to grumble as I pick out a handful of bell peppers. As if I wouldn’t be able to tell it’s the same person.

The boy’s voice echoes through the store. “Can I have this, then? And this?”

I glance over again, unable to help myself. The boy is fidgeting with his sleeves and keeps glancing toward the storefront, where the AAAS girls are. They’re giggling loudly enough that I can hear it over the sound of the storm.

At least someone is having a good day. I can only pray mine will improve once this boy buys whatever is on the counter and leaves.

I turn back around, facing the opposite shelf. After a moment’s hesitation, I grab a pack of Oreos for Anam. It’s a thinly veiled apology, but it’ll have to do.

A strange clicking sound goes off, and belatedly, I realize it’s the sound of a camera shutter. Slowly, I face the front of the aisle, counting down from ten to keep from throwing something at the boy who’s still somehow here.

“Are you taking pictures of me?” I ask, grinding my teeth together.

The boy blinks, setting down the disposable camera to look at me, his eyes flashing in recognition. Then he scoffs. “As if. I was taking a picture of the sign.”

My gaze narrows. “What sign?”

The boy gives me a dark look and points behind me. I glance over my shoulder to see a handwritten sign that reads:

CUSTOMERS WELCOME

(FAMILY AND FRIENDS BY APPOINTMENT)

Oh.