“I’ve been wetter.”
She hesitated.
“Thank you.”
The Biker frowned.
“For what?”
The Cashier almost said the doll.
But that felt too small.
“Keeping the promise.”
The Biker looked toward the foster home.
“I’m not done.”
The Cashier did not know then how true that was.
The next morning, she woke thinking the previous night might feel unreal.
It did not.
Her old princess doll sat on a shelf across the bedroom.
She got up.
Walked over.
Lifted it.
The blue dress had faded toward gray.
The hair had knots no brush could fix.
One painted eye had a tiny scratch.
The Cashier held the doll against herself.
At seven, she had named it June.
Why?
She could not remember.
Maybe because June sounded like somebody who would stay.
The Cashier sat on the floor.
For years, she had treated the doll as evidence of her own childhood.
Now it belonged to another story too.
A twelve-year-old girl in a wheelchair had chosen it from a shelf.
A grieving father had paid for it.
A foster-home worker had placed it under a paper Christmas tree.
A seven-year-old child had opened it.
Eighteen years later, that child had scanned twelve more at a register.
The Cashier began laughing.
Then crying.
Then both.
She called the toy store.
The Manager answered.
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
“Calling out?”
“No.”
“Then why are you calling?”
The Cashier looked toward the doll.
“How many princess dolls are coming on the next shipment?”
Pause.
“What?”
“Can you check?”
“Why?”
“Please.”
The Manager sighed.
Keyboard clicks followed.
“Twenty-four.”
“When?”
“Thursday.”
The Cashier smiled.
“Can you hold twelve?”
“No.”
Her smile disappeared.
“Why?”
“Company policy.”
“Oh.”
“Employees can’t reserve limited inventory before customers.”
“Right.”
The Manager paused.
“However…”
She waited.
“If somebody wanted to purchase twelve after they hit the sales floor…”
The Cashier understood.
“Thank you.”
“Didn’t say anything.”
The Biker returned the next December.
He entered at 8:41.
Nineteen minutes before closing.
Same leather vest.
Same gray beard.
Different hooded sweatshirt.
He stopped immediately.
The entire princess-doll shelf was full.
Twelve dolls were arranged in a neat block.
Beside them stood the Cashier.
No longer wearing a red vest.
She had been promoted to department supervisor.
The Biker stared.
“What’s this?”
The Cashier folded her arms.
“Inventory.”
He narrowed his eyes.
“You did something.”
“I stocked shelves.”