It comes to me immediately, without thought or consideration. Just enters my consciousness and burrows like a bad memory I can’t turn off.

Cora would do this.

I ball my fists because I have to squeeze something.

“What…what are the police saying?” I ask.

“I have no idea,” she says. “I can’t imagine they’re saying much at all right now. All I know is, if you have a dog, keep it inside the house. That’s what I’m doing. It’s all just so horrible.”

I force myself to finish ringing her groceries, then close down my lane. I’m the only checker working at the moment, so I head into the back office and find Erika, a new employee, working on inventory sheets. I ask her to cover me for five minutes, telling her I’m not feeling well and need some air. It’s the truth.

I walk out of the back of the store and suck in dumpster air. The chilled air is wet, snow to come. My mind spins and, with it, my body. I turn slowly around, not even aware why, like a dancing figurine set atop a music box. Scanning my surroundings, three hundred sixty degrees, as if looking for holes in my reality.

John, my manager, comes scurrying through the back door and joins me outside, his salt-and-pepper mustache twitching faster than normal. He has the nervous look of a gerbil burrowing through wood shavings.

“Rose, you can’t take a break now. Erika’s not properly trained to work the register yet.”

I stop turning and face him, a sudden wave of nausea washing over me.

“She’s fine, John. She’s done it before, and I just need five minutes.”

He sucks in his face, as if allergic to logic. “You need to ask me before taking breaks. You don’t just leave your post.”

Post. Like we’re taking turns keeping watch for zombies in some postapocalyptic world.

“Fine, John.” I don’t hide the attitude in my voice.

He keeps looking at me, but with only rapid-fire bursts of eye contact. His agitation is apparent and disproportionate to the minor infraction I’ve committed.

“I just need a minute,” I say, my stomach still unsteady.

He doesn’t leave. He just twitches more.

“What?” I ask him.

“You know, Nate called me up, asking about you.”

Nate. Nathan Carnes, owner of the store.

“What about?” I’m not sure I want the answer.

“All these…all these rumors.” He waves his arms as if the rumors could be seen, swirling about in toxic clouds.

I take a step toward him. “What rumors?” I ask.

“You know.”

“I don’t know, John. I want to hear you say it. What rumors?”

I’m calmer, the nausea subsiding as I take another step. I’m only a couple feet away, and all that is going sideways in my life has manifested itself here in John, a mid-level manager of a gourmet grocery store. He is the embodiment of every mistake I’ve made, of every wrong done to me, whether I caused it or not. And as I bask in his nervousness, my control kicks in, something I haven’t savored in some time.