The Cashier scanned the final receipt.
She stared at it.
Then looked at him.
“Can I come?”
The question surprised everyone.
The Biker frowned.
“Where?”
“The foster home.”
The Cashier looked toward the old photograph on her phone.
“I haven’t been back since I aged out.”
The Biker studied her.
“You sure?”
“No.”
He nodded.
“Good answer.”
The Cashier looked toward the Manager.
He already knew.
“We closed in seven minutes anyway.”
“Go.”
Her eyebrows rose.
“I’ll finish.”
“You sure?”
The Manager looked toward the Biker.
“Some nights the inventory can wait.”
The Biker packed the dolls.
The store had run out of large bags.
So they used four shopping bags and three shipping cartons.
The Biker could have carried everything himself.
The Cashier insisted on taking one box.
Outside, the rain had begun.
Light.
Cold.
Not enough to become snow.
The Biker looked at his motorcycle.
Then at the twelve dolls.
The Cashier laughed.
“You didn’t think that through.”
“No.”
“You came on a motorcycle.”
“I forgot how big twelve boxes are.”
“What usually happens?”
“Truck.”
“Where is it?”
“Club Vice President borrowed it.”
The Cashier looked toward her compact car.
“You can follow me.”
The Biker frowned.
“You trust strange bikers quickly.”
She looked toward him.
“Apparently one strange biker bought me a princess doll eighteen years ago.”
“Fair.”
They loaded the dolls into her car.
The Biker followed on the motorcycle.
The foster home was thirty minutes away.
Long enough for the Cashier to reconsider everything.
She had not returned since leaving at seventeen.
Not once.
She had driven past.
Twice.
Maybe three times.
Always kept moving.
She had told herself she was busy.
Then that the memories were not important.
Then that the building probably looked different anyway.
The truth was simpler.
She was afraid it might look exactly the same.
The road narrowed as they entered the older neighborhood.
The Cashier recognized the church first.
Then the laundromat.
The corner store had become a pharmacy.
The huge oak tree remained.
Her hands tightened around the steering wheel.
The foster home appeared at the end of the block.
Two stories.
Brick.
White porch columns.
New roof.
Same windows.
Christmas lights along the railing.
The Cashier pulled over.
Turned off the engine.
Did not move.
The Biker parked behind her.
He removed his helmet.
Walked to the driver’s side.
She lowered the window.
“You okay?”
“No.”
He nodded.
“Want to leave?”
She looked toward the house.