By the time this happened, I was 12 hours into a shift and running on coffee and bad nerves.
My head pounded.
I had already checked my banking app three times that day, and every version of the math ended the same way.
I was short. Again.
I hated that question because the answer was almost always no.
Then a little girl stepped up to my register with a bottle of milk pressed to her chest.
She could not have been older than eight.
Her sweater was worn thin at the elbows. Her hands were red from cold. Her face had that careful, adult look some kids get when life has already taught them not to ask for much.
She looked up at me and whispered, “Please… can I pay tomorrow?”
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