She found what looked to be the main—possibly only—grocery store and pulled into an empty space not far from it. A wooden bench stood off to the side of the automatic doors, and a man, his thinning hair hanging across his forehead and tar-stained fingers clutching a hand-rolled cigarette, watched her approach. Margot hazarded a smile. He didn’t return it. As she passed him to reach the doors, he said, “You’re from the hill.” It was a statement.
“Ah. Gallows Hill, yeah.” She held her bag against her side with both hands, and even though she knew it made her look anxious and defensive, she couldn’t stop. “Just moved in.”
He gave a soft, guttural grunt and drew deeply from the cigarette. Margot couldn’t tell if he was done talking or not. She made to step away, then he said, “I like some of the people from there.”
“Yeah?”
“Place’s rotten to its core, though.” The cigarette was only half-done, but he dropped it to the ground, crushing it under his boot, then stood. “Take my advice. Keep driving.”
Margot stood out in front of the store, heart running fast, as she watched the man walk away, head down and hands in his pockets. Her fingers hurt from how tightly she clutched her bag.
The automatic doors scraped open with a hiss, making her flinch, and Margot shuffled out of the way as an older couple moved past, watching her from the corners of their eyes.
The headache was growing worse. Margot made herself breathe in deeply, her lungs expanding as far as they would go, and then she stepped into the store.
The space smelled faintly of air freshener, moldering fruit, and dust. Only one of the four checkouts was open. A ceiling light blinked, feebly holding on to life. Margot took up a wire basket and entered the labyrinth of shelves.
A dozen shoppers milled, sometimes alone, sometimes in clusters. They spoke to one another in low whispers. Margot couldn’t make out any words. She had a horrible, gnawing sense that they were talking about her. She worried she was being paranoid. Worse, she worried she was right.
She didn’t labor over her choices but grabbed handfuls of fruit and a packet of nuts as she passed them. When she turned into an aisle, the woman at the opposite end swiveled her cart around and left.
Don’t read into that. People move between aisles in a grocery store. That wasn’t because of you.
She hadn’t eaten cereal in years, but it wasn’t a day to be fussy, so she added two brands to her basket and turned another corner.
A boy stood in her path, looking no older than ten or eleven. Blond, windblown hair clung messily above his pale face. Brightly shining, darkly curious eyes looked up at her. “Hi,” he said.