Emily dug through her purse again. Notepad and pencil, lipstick, compact, condom, Kotex, screwdriver, shopping list from March, receipt from December, all sorts of odds and ends none of which could be exchanged for ninety-nine cents of french fries. "Shit," Emily said in the general direction of the register girl. "Shit, sorry, my credit card's on the bus, I'll go get it—"
"Let me," said the woman behind Emily. A brown hand dropped a dollar and a dime on the counter. "A pie too, if you want it? You look like you could use some therapeutic calories."
Emily glanced up at the menu, apple pie innocently listed above Hershey's, and burst into tears. "No, no," she managed, "thank you so much but no—"
"Hershey pie," the woman said decisively, "and a Whopper and onion rings for me," and the moment the food arrived she steered Emily to a corner table. "Don't you worry about paying me back, honey," she said while Emily was nibbling at the pie and trying to get herself together. "Just give a food bank a couple cans of pork and beans and an hour volunteering and we'll call it paid."