“HEY, YOU! STOP!”

Running past the rice, breadcrumbs, and cereal boxes, I ignore the guard like he ain’t talking to me. He catch up to me anyhow.

“Hey!” He grabs the back of my arm. “Don’t make it hard on yourself.” He in front of me when he say, “I saw what you did.”

I’m loud when I say I was only looking. Then I ask why people can’t leave kids like me alone. If I didn’t have a baby with me, he would call the police, he says.

“For a dollar bottle of Tylenol? It ain’t even Tylenol. It’s pretend Tylenol.” I pull it out the front pocket of Cricket’s carrier. “Take it.” I start walking, then come back. “Here.” It’s a dollar for the medicine. I can’t afford it, but I need it. I ran out of what I had. This the third day she been sick. Yesterday, the landlord caught me walking her up and down the hall. I had to pay him something, he said. I gave him thirty-seven dollars and kept ten for myself. And I still owe him. Don’t know how I’m gonna buy her diapers and food with what I got left.

The girl rings me up. The guard walks me out. If I step foot in this store again, he’ll have me locked up, he says. I got no choice. I take her home. Strip her down to her underwear, give her the medicine, and hold her until she asleep. I put on my high heels when I go out the next time, a skirt that ain’t too short, and the kind of shirt Maleeka would wear: not tight or see-through or nothing.