It was 11:47 and the store was supposed to close thirteen minutes ago.
Only one register still lit, the one closest to the door. A teenager with acne cream on his chin was scanning a single package of ground beef for an old man in work boots.
I was holding a lobster-shaped oven mitt. Foster kid thought it was hilarious last week. I told him I'd find one. Here I was, forty-three, chasing a joke across town at midnight.
The old man paid in crumpled twenties. The teenager didn't rush him. Didn't look at his phone. Just waited.
The old man said, 'I was here the night this store opened. Nineteen eighty-eight.' The teenager nodded like that made sense. Maybe it did.
I got to the register and set down the mitt. The teenager scanned it. 'Three ninety-nine.' I handed him a five.
On the way out the automatic doors sighed shut behind me. Parking lot empty. Streetlight flickering.
I thought about my passport. It expired last year. I keep meaning to renew it, but I haven't left this county in eight years.
That night I realized some things I'm still standing in. Not because I have to. Because someone's still holding the lane open.