“No,” Terrence said. “It’s not.”
“He’s a person,” Zoe said. “He has a name. It’s on his shirt.”
I stood in the security room at Lakeview Foods and looked at my daughter.
Ten years old. Red hair. Freckles. Furious.
Saying the thing I didn’t say at the Super One on London Road when I was thirteen.
He’s a person. He has a name. It’s on his shirt.
Terrence picked up his radio.
“Gloria,” he said. “Is Henry okay?”
The radio crackled.
He’s okay. He’s shaking. Lady’s still yelling. She’s asking where the manager is.
“Tell her I’m coming,” Terrence said. “Tell her two minutes.”
He put the radio down.
He looked at Jade.
“Print me the security footage,” he said. “Stills. Every frame. The phone going on the shelf. The hand on the cart. The push. All of it.”
