“I’m not selling them.”
She felt heat rise into her face.
“Oh.”
He nodded toward the dolls.
“They’re for little girls.”
The Cashier smiled awkwardly.
“Granddaughters?”
He looked down.
“No.”
Something in his voice made her stop asking questions.
She finished scanning.
The total appeared.
The Biker counted the remaining bills.
His hands were enormous, but he handled the money carefully, almost ceremonially.
When he passed it across the counter, the Cashier noticed his fingers trembling.
Not badly.
Just enough.
She looked at his face again.
There were dark circles beneath his eyes.
His beard was combed, but his shirt looked as if he had been wearing it for a long time.
Maybe since morning.
Maybe longer.
The Cashier counted the cash.
Correct amount.
She opened the first gift bag.
“Would you like me to bag these separately?”
The Biker looked surprised.
“If that’s not too much trouble.”
“It’s okay.”
He nodded.
“Each one separate, please.”
The Cashier began placing a doll into a bag.
Pink tissue paper.
One small ribbon.
Then another.
The Biker watched closely.
“Can they all look about the same?”
She looked up.
“The same?”
“So nobody gets one that looks better.”
The Cashier paused.
Then smiled.
“Yeah.”
“I can do that.”
“Thank you.”
She adjusted the first bag.
Added equal tissue.
Folded the top neatly.
Then began the second.
The Biker reached into his wallet.
The Cashier assumed he was putting away his change.
Instead, something slipped onto the counter.
A hospital wristband.
Small.
Child-sized.
The Biker froze.
The Cashier did too.
He picked it up carefully.
For a moment, his thumb moved across the plastic band.
Then he opened his wallet farther.
A photograph sat inside.
A little girl.
About eight years old.
Thin face.
Bright eyes.
A paper princess crown sat crooked on her head.
She wore a hospital gown.
Behind her were balloons.
The Biker stood beside her in the photograph, wearing the same leather vest, his enormous tattooed arm resting carefully around her tiny shoulders.
The girl was smiling so hard her eyes nearly disappeared.
The Cashier looked away.
The Biker placed the wristband back inside the wallet.
Then tucked the photograph away.
The Cashier finished another bag.
She wanted to apologize for the joke.
But suddenly the apology felt too small.
So she kept working.
The Biker remained silent.
Five bags.
Six.
Seven.
The store music played softly overhead.
A cheerful holiday song.
The Cashier had heard it fourteen times that week.
Tonight it sounded wrong.
She placed the eighth doll into a bag.
Then she saw the Biker remove a folded piece of paper from inside his vest.
It had been folded many times.
The edges were soft.
He opened it halfway.
Looked.
Closed it again.
The Cashier tried not to stare.
“You want the cards inside the bags?”
she asked.
The Biker nodded.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Do you want to write something?”
“I already have something.”
He touched the folded paper.