“I think there’s enough.”
I had looked into the bag and seen mostly pennies.
Then I had looked into her kitchen.
That changed everything.
When I told her she was supposedly our hundredth customer and that the pizza was free, she had worried about me getting in trouble before she celebrated getting a meal.
“I’m the manager,” I had lied.I wasn’t.
I was just a delivery driver who couldn’t make myself take fourteen dollars in coins from a woman sitting in a freezing house.
After leaving the pizza on her lap, I had gone to my car, texted dispatch that I had a flat tire, and driven to a big-box store instead of returning to work.
I bought milk, eggs, bread, oatmeal, bananas, several cans of soup with pull-tabs, and a rotisserie chicken that was still hot when I carried it through her back door.
Now those groceries covered most of her small kitchen table.
