Tomas had been behind that counter for twenty-six years. He knew the difference between a customer who was poor and a customer who was frightened. Lidia Varga was both, and the combination sat in his chest after she left, heavier than the order.

She was seventy-four. Everyone in the market street knew that much. She had lived in the same narrow house at the end of Binder Lane since before the tannery closed. Her husband, Emil, had been dead eleven years. There were no children who visited. In winter she bought two eggs and a small loaf. In spring she bought a chicken wing if the price had fallen. Sixty kilos of beef, every morning, did not belong to that life.

On the fourth day Tomas wrapped the last parcel more slowly than he needed to.

“Mrs. Varga,” he said. “That is a great deal of meat for one kitchen.”

She did not smile. She had a polite face, the kind old women wear in shops so that no one will detain them. “I am paying,” she said.

“I did not ask about paying.”

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Her hands tightened on the plastic. For a moment he thought she might put the bags down and tell him. Instead she looked past his shoulder at the street, as if the explanation were out there and had to be kept from coming in.

“Please,” she said. “Just the beef.”

He gave it to her. After she left, the unease did not leave with her. It lingered in the sawdust and in the bell above the door. He told himself it was none of his business. He told himself old women were allowed their eccentricities. He told himself a person did not scan a street like that unless they were hiding something terrible.