The officer extended one hand.
“Let me see.”
The boy held the bag a little closer to his body.
“My dad said I’m supposed to bring it home.”
The officer’s expression changed.
Barely.
But enough that the boy noticed.
“I didn’t ask what your dad said.”
The boy swallowed.
The officer came another step closer.
“Open it.”
The boy parted the thin plastic handles.
The officer looked inside.
Cereal.
Syrup.
Batteries.
Candy.
Card.
Nothing.
He still asked:
“Receipt?”
The boy blinked.
“What?”
“Receipt.”
The boy dug into the front pocket of his sweatshirt.
Paper.
He handed it over.
The officer glanced at the total.
Then looked toward the convenience store six blocks away as though he could see through houses.
“You walk there?”
“Yes.”
“By yourself?”
“Yes.”
“How old are you?”
“Eleven.”
The officer handed the receipt back.
“You live around here?”
The boy pointed.
“Right there.”
The officer followed his finger.
Two-story gray suburban house.
White porch columns.
Green lawn.
Basketball hoop over the garage.
A bicycle lying beside the front steps.
The officer looked at the boy again.
“That house?”
“Yes.”
“You sure?”
The boy frowned.
“Yes.”
“What’s the address?”
He gave it.
The officer looked toward the mailbox.
The number matched.
But instead of relaxing, the officer seemed to become more suspicious.
“Who lives there?”
“My dad.”
“Name?”
The boy gave his father’s first name.
The officer stared.
“Last name?”
The boy gave that too.
“What does he do?”
The boy hesitated.
Why did that matter?
“He works.”
The officer’s mouth twitched.
“Where?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know where your father works?”
“I know.”
“So where?”
The boy looked toward the house.
“He works from home sometimes.”
“What kind of work?”
The boy’s face warmed.
He knew what his father did.
Mostly.
But adults used words he sometimes forgot.
Something with insurance investigations.
Fraud.
Compliance.
Reports.
Court records.
The boy finally said:
“He checks stuff for companies.”
The officer stared at him.
“Checks stuff.”
“Yes.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
The boy’s stomach tightened.
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know if I should believe you?”
“No.”
“I mean…”
He looked toward the house again.
“That’s where I live.”
The officer glanced at the bag.
“Where are your keys?”
“I don’t have keys.”
“How do you get inside?”
“My dad’s home.”
“You said he works.”
“He’s working at home.”
The officer smiled without humor.
“So now he’s home.”
The boy looked confused.
“I already said that.”
“No, you said he works.”