As if I’d conjured her, Leah appeared at the other end of the aisle. She hesitated, then walked toward me. Her basket was still empty, and I thought that leaving it that way must mean she truly was sick, that starvation was a compulsion, not a choice the way she’d made it out to be. She’d asked to come here, to H-E-B, after all. But faced with all this bounty, she couldn’t choose any of it. Only a moment before, I’d wanted to shame her into eating, to force her. But now, I saw that nothing I did would cure her. I put the Reese’s back.

“I’m trying to find the yogurts,” she said. Close up she looked overwhelmed, a little lost, but also prettier, her complexion warmed by the colors around us.

I held up my phone. “Will you help me?”

“You know where the yogurts are?” she asked.

“Yeah, after,” I said, and she took the phone. “Get a lot,” I said.

She sighed, dramatic, but let me show her how to position the screen. Then I put myself across the aisle from where she stood, so close to the Reese’s, Snickers Bars, bags of M&M’s, that I could smell their chocolate insides. I unzipped my hoodie to show my new cleavage and stood on my toes.

“This is stupid,” Leah said, but I heard the shutter. I twisted, showed my ass and it clicked again.

“All set?” she asked.

“Come on,” I said and faced her, pressed my torso toward the lens so my breasts were centered. I wet my lips, parted them. The shutter closed again, and again.

“Hello, excuse me, earth to the ladies?” An old woman with a cart wanted to get by.

“Sorry,” we said and stepped aside. She grumbled as she passed and Leah said, “Sorry ma’am,” then started to laugh. “Ma’am,” she said again, her voice lighter, like she couldn’t believe the word. Her laughter made mine kick up too. I moved to where she was, put my chin on her shoulder and touched the phone she held to scroll the shots.

“Dude, I know you got lips, but a boob job?” she whispered, still half laughing.

“I don’t know, did I?” I whispered back.

“I don’t know, did you?”

I tried to make my face a knowing smirk. “Who cares?” I said and then, “Cute.” I tapped the screen to mark my favorites.

“Okay,’ I said, “now you.”

“No way.”

“Do it,” I whined, “just for fun.” She slumped to where I had stood.

“Okay,” I said, “face the candy then turn and look back over your shoulder.” She made a purposefully ugly face. I pressed to catch her. Even a bad picture, tagged and shared to my account, could multiply her following by five, maybe ten. It wasn’t the care she needed, it wasn’t a cure. But it was something.