A vision flashed into his brain of Morgan, tall and broad-shouldered, standing too close to his mother in the hall. His mom
had looked strange, not like a mother at all, her cheeks too pink, her eyes too bright.
Zack‟s chest tightened as if he‟d been running. He stabbed the gun down another row of cans. Two-sixty-nine, two-sixty-
nine, two-sixty-nine , and done.
Straightening, he slid the old cans to the front of the shelf and face out. Rotating stock, Wiley called it.
The work was physical. Mindless. Zack didn‟t have to think, just follow instructions. He liked that, liked working alone. At
the beginning of his shift, he‟d had to help Mr. Wiley haul boxes from the afternoon‟s delivery to the appropriate aisles. But
now Wiley was arranging displays at the front of the store. He was okay, even if he was overweight and going bald and
Stephanie‟s dad besides.
Zack‟s dad, his real dad, Ben, started losing his hair even before the chemo. You could see it in pictures, this dark, Wshaped hairline above a high forehead and warm brown eyes. The details of his father‟s face were fading away, blurred by
time, overlaid by images of his illness. Zack wasn‟t sure anymore what he remembered and what he‟d reconstructed from
photographs.
A picture of his dad sat on his dresser, taken on a fishing trip to Holden Beach when Zack was ten years old. His dad had
one arm around Zack‟s shoulders, and they were both squinting at the camera and grinning. Zack‟s hair was hidden by his ball
cap, and his skin had tanned a golden brown. They looked related, like father and son.
But when Zack looked in the mirror this morning, it wasn‟t Ben‟s face he saw.
It was Morgan‟s.
Hands shaking, he grabbed cans, slung them to the back.
“Last aisle,” Wiley said behind him.
Zack‟s hand clenched around a can of chunky chicken soup, two-sixty-nine . He faced it out carefully before he turned.
“Yes, sir.”
“You did good tonight. We‟ll finish early.”
The praise made Zack uncomfortable. He hung his head, staring at his feet. Big feet, like his . . . like Morgan‟s. “Yes, sir,”
he said tonelessly.
Wiley chuckled. “Southern boy, aren‟t you?”
“Excuse me?”
“Calling me sir. Makes me feel damn old.”
Zack didn‟t know how to respond. He was old, as old as Zack‟s mom, anyway. Too old for . . .
Another image of his mother standing with Morgan at the foot of the stairs seared his brain.
Too old for . . .
“Any questions before we call it a night?” Wiley asked.
“No, sir. Um, Mr. Wiley.”
Maybe his mother didn‟t feel old either. The tightness returned to Zack‟s chest. Maybe . . .
“I need to buy cat food,” he blurted. “Oh, and some litter. To take home.”
“You have a cat?”
“We do now,” Zack said grimly. Morgan‟s cat. But they could take care of it without Morgan‟s help.
Wiley rubbed his chin. “You can‟t buy anything now. I already closed out the register. But you pick out what you need.
You can settle up when you come in tomorrow.”
“Sure. Thanks. What time?”
“Be here at twelve. I post the schedule on Monday.”
“Twelve o‟clock,” Zack said, committing it to memory. His heart knocked against his ribs. “Is Stephanie working
tomorrow?”
Wiley shot him a sharp glance. “Everybody works weekends in the summer.”
Zack swallowed. “I just, um, wondered. Since she wasn‟t here tonight.”
Oh, God, could he please shut his mouth?
“She stayed home,” Wiley said. “Some guy coming over, I think. You need a ride?”
Zack‟s gut churned. She had some guy coming over.
Not him.
Disappointment nipped at him.