Lunch.
Laundry.
Maybe a basketball game on television.
Nothing complicated.
The universe apparently disagreed.
The teenager ended the call.
“She’s coming.”
“Wonderful.”
The Black man pressed the hatch button.
The rear door began lowering.
The teenager stepped forward again.
“Don’t close that.”
The man turned.
The hatch stopped automatically when he placed one hand beneath it.
“Excuse me?”
“You can’t leave.”
The man looked at the boy for several seconds.
Then he released the hatch and let it rise again.
“Listen carefully.”
The teenager stared.
“You do not get to tell me where I can go.”
“My groceries are in your car.”
“They’re not.”
“Yes, they are.”
“Then identify something unique.”
The teenager paused.
“What?”
“Something unique.”
The man gestured toward the bags.
“Not bread. Not chicken. Not oranges. Something that would show these are specifically your groceries.”
The boy looked inside.
He hesitated.
The man noticed.
“Exactly.”
The teenager pointed toward the flowers.
“We didn’t buy those.”
The Black man nodded.
“Correct.”
“That doesn’t prove anything.”
“It proves your memory is already incomplete.”
The boy’s jaw tightened.
A car door slammed nearby.
Then a woman’s voice cut across the parking lot.
“What is going on?”
The teenager immediately turned.
His mother hurried toward them.
White woman.
Late forties.
Camel-colored belted coat.
Large black sunglasses.
Gold earrings.
Leather handbag over one shoulder.
She moved with the confidence of someone arriving to settle a matter she had already decided.
The teenager pointed.
“He took our groceries.”
The mother did not ask what happened.
She looked directly at the Black man.
“Give them back.”
The Black man stared at her.
She stepped closer.
“I’m talking to you.”
“I heard you.”
“Then open the car and give my son our groceries.”
“They’re mine.”
Her mouth tightened.
“No, they aren’t.”
The man looked toward the teenager.
Then back.
“You’ve been here for six seconds.”
“My son told me what happened.”
“And that was enough?”
“Yes.”
The answer came instantly.
The Black man nodded once.
That told him almost everything he needed to know about how this conversation would proceed.
The mother pointed toward the open cargo area.
“I want those bags taken out.”
“No.”
“Excuse me?”
“No.”
The teenager stepped beside her.
“See?”
The mother looked around the parking lot.
Then toward the man.
“You really want to do this?”
He almost smiled.
“Do what?”
“Make a scene.”
The Black man looked at the shoppers passing them.
“You approached me.”
“You took something that doesn't belong to you.”
“Again, no.”
She stepped closer.
He raised one hand.
“Stay there.”
The woman froze.
Her expression sharpened.
“Did you just tell me where I can stand?”
“Yes.”