AHMIR
The ride over was short. City traffic parted the way it always did when your schedule paid for whole lanes. But my head was quiet in a way it usually wasn’t — no spreadsheets, no projections. Just a list, burgers for the boys. Chicken for the grill. Real steaks for the adults. Juice boxes. Charcoal. Condiments. Something sweet for her. Something she wouldn’t buy for herself.
The automatic doors whooshed open and cool air hit me, tinged with citrus and bleach. A supermarket. Ordinary. People in hoodies and leggings arguing about cereal prices while a billionaire walked in thinking about grill temperatures.
Life has a sense of humor. I grabbed a cart, it felt foreign in my hands.
I started with the meat section, because I understood inventory. Thighs, wings, a slab of ribs. Ground
