She answered the phone. She put it to her ear. She listened.
Then she turned around and looked at us.
At Ellie.
At Ellie’s backpack. At the gray stuffed bunny with the crooked ear clipped to the zipper.
She stared at it for a long moment.
Then she turned away fast and hurried outside, through the automatic doors, into the parking lot. Talking into the phone in a low, fast voice.
She didn’t look back.
“That was weird,” Ellie said.
“People get upset when they lose things,” I said.
“She looked at Mr. Hops funny.”
“Maybe she likes bunnies.”
Ellie thought about that. “Maybe.”
We bought our milk and our bread. The store brand. And a bunch of bananas. Eleven dollars and six cents.
We walked home. It’s only six blocks from the Walmart to Pickett Street. I don’t drive much anymore. My eyes aren’t good at night, and the old Buick needs new brakes I can’t afford.
