You spend years at the same neighborhood pharmacy, and you start to notice the little tells—shaky hands, quiet counting, that awkward pause before someone asks to put something back. One evening, an elderly woman came up with her granddaughter and a handful of basics, including kids’ cough syrup.
When the total popped up, she realized she was a few dollars short. She tried to set the medicine aside, apologizing like she’d done something wrong, and the little girl clutched the bottle like it was a treasure.
Without overthinking it, I pulled a crumpled bill from my pocket and covered the difference. No fanfare—just a simple, “Take it and get your granddaughter home.” Her eyes welled instantly, the kind of tears that come from pure exhaustion, not drama.
She squeezed my hand, whispered a blessing, and hurried out. I shrugged it off—just another night behind the register.
The next morning, a uniformed police officer walked straight toward me—no small talk, just purpose. My heart sank. He asked if I was the one who had paid for an older woman’s medicine the night before and told me to call my manager. My mind raced through every nightmare scenario.
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