She doesn’t go anywhere without Mr. Hops.
We were heading toward customer service when a woman rushed through the front entrance.
She came in so fast the automatic doors barely had time to open. She nearly knocked over a display of pumpkin spice coffee.
She was about forty. Pretty, in a tired way. Dark hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. She was wearing a nice blouse tucked into jeans, like she’d come from an office job. Mascara streaking down her cheeks in black lines. One of her shoes was untied, the lace flapping as she ran.
She ran straight to the customer service counter.
“Please!” she cried to the teenage cashier behind it. “Has anyone turned in a diamond ring? I was here twenty minutes ago! I was buying candy for my son! It must have slipped off! It’s gold, with a big diamond, it’s very old, please, please, has anyone—”
