He reached into the inside pocket of his vest.
Pulled out an old leather wallet.
Then an even older roll of cash.
The Cashier had seen this before.
Her assumption arrived instantly.
Reseller.
Of course.
Christmas was three weeks away.
A man comes in ten minutes before closing and clears the shelf.
Cash.
No questions.
Probably already had listings prepared online.
She knew she should not care.
He was buying legally.
The store sold toys.
Customers bought them.
That was the job.
But she did care.
Some child would come in tomorrow looking for one of those dolls.
There would be none.
Meanwhile this man would probably charge eighty dollars for something the store sold for twenty-nine.
She began scanning.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
The Biker counted bills.
Twenty.
Forty.
Sixty.
The Cashier glanced at the pile.
“Twelve.”
He looked up.
“Ma’am?”
“You got all twelve.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“You really cleaned us out.”
He gave a small nod.
The Cashier kept scanning.
Beep.
Beep.
She tried to keep the irritation out of her voice.
Failed slightly.
“Planning ahead for Christmas?”
The Biker shook his head.
“No.”
Beep.
Another doll.
She smiled the professional smile she used when she did not mean it.
“Reselling?”
His fingers stopped.
The Cashier instantly regretted the question.
It was none of her business.
The Biker looked at her.
For the first time she noticed his eyes.
Pale gray.
Tired.
Not angry.
Something else.
He slowly shook his head.
“No, ma’am.”
His voice was deep and rough.
“I’m not selling them.”
The Cashier stopped scanning.
“Oh.”
The Biker looked down at the boxes.
“They’re gifts.”
The Cashier felt stupid.
“Sorry.”
He gave another small nod.
“Nothing to apologize for.”
She picked up the next box.
“Big family?”
“No.”
The answer came quietly.
She scanned.
The Biker adjusted one box that had become crooked in the stack.
The gesture was unexpectedly gentle.
His huge tattooed fingers smoothed a dent from the cardboard corner.
The Cashier glanced at him.
“For a school?”
He hesitated.
“Foster home.”
That changed something.
The Cashier’s hand stopped over the scanner.
He continued before she asked.
“Twelve girls.”
The store suddenly felt quieter.
“Those dolls are for twelve foster kids?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Christmas gifts?”
The Biker looked at the pink boxes.