Once Sarah had paid for both hers and Mick’s portion of the groceries, she gathered up her grocery bags and headed for the exit. She stepped out into the bright Los Angeles sunshine so caught up in her baking plans that she was halfway across the parking lot before she noticed the black-and-white backing up. Don’t freak out, she told herself. This is probably nothing to do with you. Even so, she veered to the right, heart pounding, yanking the rubber band from her ponytail, tipping her face downward so her hair fell forward and shielded her face. She forced her body to move slow and steady as she pushed through the panic. Keep walking. That gray van there would be good cover. Two more cars. You can do it. Hopefully the cop is just stopping to pick up some lunch. She tucked behind the van and watched the reflections in the grocery store window. The cop car glided to a halt directly behind her vehicle, blocking it in. Oh shit. Inside the cop car, the policeman tugged his computer screen toward him and started inputting information. Even from her limited vantage point, it was clear he was focused on her car. Move. Move now! By the time she reached the sidewalk, the cop was getting out of his vehicle. He circled her car, scanning the parking lot behind his mirrored sunglasses. A city bus pulled to the bus stop in front of the store. Psshhhh went the air brakes, and the door folded open. It felt like a sign. A promise of momentary safety.

Sarah melded into the line of people getting on the bus. Four people to go . . . Three now . . . She didn’t look back. Didn’t dare. Nausea, acidic and sour at the back of her throat. Two people until safety . . . One. Trying to keep her body language relaxed. Nothing to see here. Just a woman with her shopping bags heading home. She stepped onto the bus, half expecting a heavy hand to land on her shoulder, yank her back, and slam her to the ground.

Psshhhh. The bus door shut behind her, and the bus lurched away from the curb, causing Sarah to stumble. She grabbed the pole, and her grocery bags thumped hard against the metallic barrier. She felt a momentary flare of worry that the apples would be bruised. On the heels of that thought, embarrassment bloomed for worrying about something so inconsequential. “How much?” she asked the bus driver. Her voice sounded odd, as if she were listening to someone else speaking. It was raw and ragged, more like a croak.

“Dollar seventy-five. We don’t make change.”