“Just ring me up, please.” I bring out the one-hundred-dollar bill Waylon gave me. “How much do I owe you?”

Charlie sets the bag full of my stuff on the counter but waves his hand at me when I push forward the bill. “Your money’s no good here—or anywhere else in town, you'll be finding. Waylon doesn't get charged for nothing, and you’re Waylon’s woman.

“I am not his woman,” I insist, thrusting the dollar toward him again.

Charlie just slides the bag forward. “Well, if Waylon tells me that, I’ll believe you. Till then, I'm not charging you a dime. So you can either take this bag or leave it here and eat those Belgian waffles Meemaw made for you—from scratch, by the way. Who turns down Belgian waffles made from scratch?”

I sigh and take the bag. Maybe I won with Waylon this morning, but this feels like another defeat.

“And hey, while you're here, could you take a look at these dark spots,” Charlie says, holding out his right hand. “You think it's cancer? The internet says it might be cancer.”

Oh, the good old, needlessly scary internet. The bane of every medical professional’s existence.

Despite my irritation, I give the hand he's holding out a quick inspection. “They look like run-of-the-mill liver spots to me. Common with older age and usually nothing to worry about."

“That's what I figured,” he says with a thoughtful frown. “But why are they on one hand, instead of both of them if I’m not dying like the Internet said?”

I smile. “Nature isn't exactly balanced when it comes to these things. Sometimes, it just does what it wants with one body part and not the other. But if you're really worried about it, you should get it checked out by a primary care doctor who can refer you to a dermatologist. When’s the last time you had a physical, anyway? Preventative methods are still the best medicine. How far away is the closest town? If you let me use the phone, maybe I could call over somewhere and set you up an appointment.”

I sneak that “closest town” question in, hoping he won’t notice it buried in with all the others.

But despite the liver spots, Charlie’s mind is still as sharp as a tack. He thins his lips. “We’re not supposed to tell you that. Waylon doesn't want you to get any ideas about trying to walk out of here. Especially after he had to burn all those things the women gathered up for you yesterday.”

All concern I was feeling for the older man’s peace of mind instantly evaporates. “He didn't have to burn anything. He chose to take all of my things and set them on fire.”

Charlie just sucks his teeth and brings his hand back behind his register. “Well, anyway, thanks for looking at my hand, Dr. Amira.”

“I'm not a doctor….”