Rose hated soccer.
The boys had been dutifully enrolled in a mini-league when Isaac turned four. Rose, as always, had done her research, questioning other mothers about which association was best—as if “best” could be used to describe anything that involved a passel of preschoolers clumping around a ball and aiming kicks at one another’s shins.
But of course the other mothers had a great deal to say about which league was best. Some leagues were noncompete, all games ending in a tie—while others sidelined the less athletically talented children, refusing to guarantee time on the field. One association’s head coach was said to hit on the players’ mothers, while another’s was suspected to be gay, not that there was anything wrong with that, but, you know …
Rose didn’t know. But she also didn’t find out.
She ended up picking the most popular league, which ranged somewhere near the middle on the competitive scale, and at which, so far, she had witnessed no sex occur, heterosexual or otherwise.
Rose began shuttling the boys to practice in the afternoons and to games on the weekends. As they grew older, entire weekends would revolve around their game schedule since it often happened that if Isaac’s game was on Saturday, then Adam’s would be on Sunday, and vice versa.
During games, Rose would watch the boys from the sidelines, trying to look interested. Clapping when Isaac made an assist, shouting when Adam blocked a kick.
But, dear Lord, was it boring.
So fucking boring!
And the other parents didn’t seem to think so at all. She felt it was all she could do to smile, and they were screaming at their kids. High-fiving when they scored. So invested in the game, as if there were something actually at stake other than cultivating the competitive spirit in a bunch of five-year-olds.
What was wrong with them?
Or better yet, what was wrong with her that she wasn’t feeling “it”?
Instead she hated the parents who bounced and clapped from the sidelines. And once she connected a child player on the field to his or her screaming, wailing counterpart on the sidelines, she found things to hate about the child as well.
Sydney, whose mother questioned every decision the referee made, ate her boogers while waiting for the game to resume.
Cooper, the goalie, had a ratty face. He looked like a smaller version of his father, who clearly viewed his son’s position on the team as equivalent to an NFL draft pick.
Jaden-with-an-E tripped smaller kids.
Jaydon-with-an-O didn’t share the ball.
Emma wasn’t going to be very pretty when she got older. She didn’t look as if she were going to be very bright either.
Rose would cycle through these judgments, finally turning her eye on her own children.
She would see them the way she imagined others saw them.
Isaac’s pretty mouth would sneer when another player stole the ball from him. She could tell when his wheels were turning. His eyes would get that nasty narrow look and Rose knew by the direction in which he stared during the breaks which player he was going to target with an “accidental” blow to the shin. More than once, it was a member of his own team.
Adam was careless, daydreaming. Other players often had to shout at him to get him to pay attention to the game. More than once he had lost the team goals because he wasn’t attending to the action on the field.
She could tell by the way the other parents would glance over at her when this happened—Adam was a loser.
Rose hated herself so much.
Hated herself for thinking horrible things about children. Hated herself for seeing anything ugly in her own. Hated herself for not being able to truly care whether it was the “Bobcats” or the “Pirates” that won the game, because all she wanted to do was get away from the noise and damp grass and screaming parents, go home, and take a nap.
* * *
Hemsford Fields was over an hour’s drive away.
Though there had been no indication of that on the schedule, which had simply listed it as “Quarter Finals Tournament, Hemsford Fields.”
Under which someone had typed, “Snack Captain—Isaac A.”
Rose had been fortunate that she had overheard some players’ mothers complaining about the distance, how much it was going to cost them to get there. “The price of gas nowadays, minivans aren’t cheap.” Singsong voice: “But what’re you gonna do?”
Rose did the sad calculus of the soccer mom.
Adam’s first game was at eight thirty, but Isaac’s started at eight. Check-in was at seven thirty for all players. An hour’s drive with an extra fifteen minutes for buffer. And she had to make the snack. Load the kids in the car. Josh was working, so he couldn’t help.…
Josh was always working.…
Maybe the boys could sleep in their uniforms.
Maybe she could shower before she went to bed.
Maybe tomorrow wouldn’t be miserable.
* * *
The boys loved the idea of sleeping in their uniforms, though Rose had drawn the line at shin guards. Too sweaty.
Isaac watched her face as she was tucking the covers in around his body.
“Mom, I want a bike for my birthday.”
It wasn’t a request. It wasn’t really a demand either. It was a simple statement of fact, the kind made by children whose parents make sure Santa Claus brings them everything on their list. His tone was the tone of a boy who simply expected to say what he wanted … and get it.
“I’ll talk to Dad about it,” Rose said, though she already knew the content of the conversation she would be having with Josh.
There was no way Isaac was getting a bike.
* * *
Do kids even bicycle anymore? thought Rose as she swept up for the night. The dishwasher hummed quietly, belching a chemic-lemon fragrance. I mean, aren’t they all stuck inside on the Internet? Playing video games so child molesters can’t snatch them from their backyards? Isn’t that why they keep saying every other kid has type two diabetes?
No. Isaac couldn’t have a bike.
He couldn’t have a bike because to Rose bicycles were so caught up in her mind with “near death” and “brain injury” that the idea of gifting her son one was akin to giving him a death trap.
The bicycle her parents had given her was gone the day she had returned from the hospital. Rose’s parents, grateful that she had been returned to them, had gotten rid of it. A totem of their misfortune.
So Rose had quietly passed out of childhood without ever learning how to ride one, a deficit that seemed to matter less and less the older she got.
Isaac couldn’t have a bike because his mother didn’t know how to ride one. He couldn’t have a bike because she was convinced a bike would take him away from her, carrying his body away from consciousness.
Rose knew this was irrational.
Maybe a few more years.… He still seemed so small.
She hated to disappoint him, but there was nothing for it. Isaac was going to have to want something else. They had time. His birthday wasn’t for weeks. This happened a lot: Isaac and Adam would decide that they needed something desperately, begging for it for days, until some new thing caught their attention and they began to insist they couldn’t live without that.
Oh, God, Adam. She hadn’t even thought of him.
If Isaac got a bike, Adam would want one. He would insist on one, and sibling parity was not something either of them let drop. If Adam got a lolly, Isaac squawked until he had one, too. It was just how they were.
Rose supposed that was her fault. She had made them that way. When they were young they were so close together that it was just easier to bring two of everything; if one asked for juice, she’d fetch a second for the other. If one got a Tonka, she put a second in the other’s hand.
For a moment, Rose fought with the image of both the boys’ bodies lying on the pavement, their heads sporting identical cracks, leaking identical trails of blood and brain.
No. There was no way Isaac could have a bike.
* * *
Josh shouted when he came in, “Guys! I’m home!”
Rose ran heel-toe to the foyer, arms waving. “Are you crazy!” she hissed.
“But, it’s nine thirty.”
“Exactly.”
Rose receded to the kitchen. Josh followed, his eyes trailing up the stairs toward his sleeping progeny.
“I thought you let them stay up on Fridays.”
“Tournament tomorrow. Hemsford.”
Josh made a face. “That’s a hike.”
“I have to get them up at six. It’s not going to be pretty.”
Josh quirked his mouth. A day in the sunshine watching his boys, talking to other dads. Seeing families be people and not next of kin. Sounded pretty great. “I wish I could go with you.”
Rose pursed her lips. Thought, Me too.
But she didn’t say it.
She didn’t need to. There were a lot of things Josh and Rose didn’t say to each other now. There was no reason. They both already knew the stifled complaints. He was never home. She was never interested. He was lonely. She was resentful.
Why talk about things they didn’t have the energy to change? Someday it would, but not now. Right now it was better just to accept that the best their marriage could do was keep its head above the swells. Tread water and wait for the waves to carry it closer to shore.
Rose changed the subject. “Just in case Isaac tries to divide and conquer, he asked for a bicycle for his birthday.… It’s not…” She trailed off, correcting, “Just don’t get suckered into promising anything.”
“He’s gonna be eight, Rosie.”
“If he gets one, Adam will start and I don’t—”
“I see injuries all day and I think you’re making more of this—”
Rose closed her eyes to him. Buried her face in her hands.
Her husband stopped talking. Stared at his wife. It was quiet for a moment as they both gauged the things they didn’t want to say.
The dishwasher shifted cycles, grinding out a new pitch.
Finally, through her fingers, Rose’s voice emerged. “Can we just … can we just … put a pin in this? All I want is for my day to end.”
Josh nodded. It was a pass. A near miss of a disagreement. “Yep. Sure. Got it.”
Ten minutes later, Josh was deep into the DVR’s cache of SportsCenter and Rose was on her way to the island. They did not forget to kiss each other good night.
* * *
Their lives would have been simpler had Josh and Rose stopped loving each other. Or if their love had faded into the background, like so many other relationships—a remnant of the past, the reason for the present.
But Josh and Rose loved each other with a depth and breadth that surpassed the love they had before their children were born. To an outsider, witness to the facts of their marriage—the lack of sex, the disagreements, the absenteeism—this might not be obvious, but their love evidenced in the smaller truths that built the facts.
On most nights, almost without fail, after the kids were tucked into bed, Rose would catch Josh scrolling through his cell phone, scanning their retirement portfolio. It was a ritual that seemed to soothe him, so it never bothered Rose. It wasn’t an act of greed, an obsessive concern over the accumulation of money.
Rose knew that, for Josh, it was an act of romance.
It was not numbers he saw in those expanding and contracting accounts, but a life lived with her. In them he saw the boys grown into men, Penny blooming into a younger version of his wife. The house they would one day be able to live in, the vacations they would one day be able to take. He saw Rose happy. He saw Rose relaxed, because there was finally enough of what they did not have now—money and time together.
Rose understood the numbers and columns were an affirmation to Josh that now was not all there would ever be. He would be reassured, as he pushed through long and difficult shifts, that there was a reason for all of it. Someday things would be different.
Josh’s love for her shone through in his words and actions. It was there in his smile, when she’d catch him looking at her across the dinner table. It was in his eyes as they made love—his eyes, always open, always full of love and hope. His eyes, always on hers.
And it was this certitude, this intensity of his love, that worried her. It was the root of her avoidance, that even the slightest physical contact could lead to the intimacy he craved. Rose often worried he’d interpret her distance as a loss of affection. But the truth was far more complicated.
* * *
New lovers become old lovers. Their ways become practiced. In time they come to see less of each other, their minds wandering while their bodies couple.
But Josh had never stopped seeing Rose. He made love to her in the same way he had when their love was fresh—more practiced than he was then, an expert now in her body, but still the entire world eclipsed by her. Looking at her. Smelling her. Being with her.
Rose never wondered if he was thinking of someone else while they had sex … his eyes were wide and clear and hungry. There was no escaping them.
But Rose was terrified of being seen.
Josh had barely changed, but she had dissolved into a frumpy housewife, overweight, overtired. Sexless where she had once been sexy.
Each time they made love she thought surely this time he would finally realize she wasn’t worthy of his worship. Surely, this time, he would realize he could find someone more beautiful to give his soul to.
Rose ached at the thought. She could not lose Josh.
But she also knew that she risked his loss by not letting him make love to her. So she parsed out sex to her husband, rationing it like a finite resource.
* * *
If they had stopped loving each other, they would have settled into a comfortable acceptance of their lives. If they had stopped loving each other, Josh’s mind would have wandered while they fucked and Rose would have felt shielded from losing him. If they had stopped loving each other, Josh wouldn’t have been so driven to protect their future together and he would have been able to be home more.
If they had stopped loving each other, it would have been easier.
* * *
Rose and Hugo spent her dream retrieving the Blanket Pavilion from the Natters nest. They had been resting inside when an avian shadow had suddenly painted itself on the ceiling of the tent. There was a screech and suddenly they were naked to the pearly sky of the island, watching the larger of the two Natters fly into the distance, white sheets trailing in his claws. Hugo and Rose had traveled to the reaches to get it back, climbing the bird-poop-stained peak to their nest. Both giant seabirds were there, beaks poking the fabric of the tent into the bed of their home.
“Why have they never laid any eggs?” whispered Rose, hiding beneath the lip of the nest.
“Because we never let them finish it.” Hugo winked and leaped into the bird’s line of sight. “Hey, you, overgrown seagulls!”
The birds startled, their huge gray-tipped wings whipping the air. The female drew back her throat and released a shattering cackle, while the male snapped his beak at Hugo. He turned and began running down the side of the mountain.
Rose waited, holding her breath. For a while it seemed that only the male was going to follow him. The female had hung back, chattering and beating at the air.
The male pursued Hugo on foot, his razor-sharp beak pecking at the ground behind him. Hugo turned toward the bird and slipped on a patch of scree. His feet flew out from beneath him and suddenly he was sliding down the side of the mountain on an avalanche of gravel.
The male cried and launched himself into the air. In the nest, the female finally gave up holding back and took off, the air of her wings buffeting Rose’s body.
Rose pulled herself up and made quick work of pulling the cloth of the Pavilion out of the branches and fallen trees that made up the nest. At the base of the mountain, she could make out Hugo rolling into a run and disappearing into the thick forest. The Natters pecked into the treetops after that, beating their wings and calling in frustration.
When they reunited on the beach, Hugo looked no worse for his tumble down the mountain. They spent a purple twilight eating seashells in the rebuilt Pavilion, their bodies cradled in radiating sand. Rose was content. She ran her hands down the smooth muscles of her arms, the gentle slope of her belly, her hair a glossy tumble on the sand.
“Are you happy, Rose?” Hugo asked, his eyes closed.
“Always.”
* * *
The rattle of the alarm pulled her into her bed.
Five A.M.
Five-God-damn-A.M.
Fuck soccer, she thought.
But still Rose dressed. Padded downstairs. Evidence of Josh’s evening lay around the house. An empty bag of chips on the coffee table. Crumbs on the countertop. An unrinsed plate by the sink.
Rose sighed and took care of it. She took care of everything.
That wasn’t really true, she knew … but still she let herself think it while she sliced the oranges for Isaac’s team’s snack. She let the thought marinate while she loaded the bottles of water and sports drinks into the cooler, pouring the ice around their necks. She let thoughts of her own put-upon-ness wash over her while she hefted the coolers into the back of the minivan and packed a bag of snacks and sunscreen, toys to distract Penny, and changes of clothes for all.
Pen did not wake when Rose lifted her out of her crib. She cooed into her mother’s neck and stayed asleep while Rose snapped her into her car seat, wrapping a blanket over her against the cold of the morning.
The boys she woke up. They stumbled sleepily down the stairs and out to the garage, climbing into their boosters and buckling themselves in. They were asleep again before Rose even started the car.
Rose checked her reflection in the rearview. Smoothed the frizz of her hair. She should have taken the time to shower last night. Should have gotten up earlier.
She exhaled.
Too late now, she thought. Already behind, and only at the start of her day.
* * *
Adam woke with the sun in his eyes.
The sunlight poured through the windshield, flaring on the streaky glass, bouncing around the car. He closed his eyes against it, and it left dark bluish trails on the backs of his eyelids.
He squinted, putting his hand up. Zackie snored next to him, his mouth open, a line of drool shiny on his chin.
Zackie’d probably make fun of him if he saw Adam drooling.
Call him “drool baby” or something.
In the front of the car, Mom was quiet. One of her hands was on the flap thingy that folded down from the ceiling. She was leaning toward it, trying to keep the sun out of her eyes.
“Mom?”
Her hand jerked away from the wheel for a second and she gasped. Surprised.
“Sorry.”
Mom shook her head. “No. Kiddo. I’m sorry. I … I thought you were asleep.”
“I woke up.”
Mom smiled back at him in her “kid watching” mirror, her face all bulbous and round on its surface.
Adam rubbed his shoulder under his strap. Rocked a butt cheek to the side. He hated his booster.
Once when he and Isaac had been out with Daddy, they had bought a new barbecue to surprise Mom, but when it was time to go home there wasn’t enough room for it in the back. Zackie and Addy had ended up waiting outside the van while Dad pulled out the seat with Zackie’s booster on it to make room for the box.
And then Zackie got to ride home in the front seat, even though it was very bad and unsafe and all those other things they said. Adam had asked why he couldn’t be up front and Dad had said it was because Isaac was older, which was unfair because Isaac was only eighteen months older, which wasn’t much at all.
And then he said they shouldn’t tell Mom because it would spoil her present.
So he didn’t. Even though he wanted to.
Still, though …
“Can I come sit up with you?”
Mom was quiet for a second. Maybe there was a chance.
“Sorry, Addy. Not tall enough yet. It’s not safe.”
Adam shrank a little bit. Isaac hadn’t been tall enough. Isaac still wasn’t tall enough. But he had got to.
The car seemed to be quieter now, after there had been talking, than it had been before he had spoken. And something about Mom had changed since she found out he was awake. Like knowing had shut a door somewhere inside her.
“Mom?”
“Adam?” Mom used her “serious” voice. The kind she used when she was teasing them in a good way.
“Can you tell me what you dreamed about Hugo last night?”
“Why do you always ask me to tell you about Hugo?”
Adam liked to hear about Hugo. He liked to think about what had happened on the island. He had lots of reasons why he always asked about it … but he decided to tell her the best reason. He knew the right word for it, too. A compliment. He was going to give Mommy a compliment.
“Because you look pretty when you talk about him.”
Mom didn’t say anything after that at all. She just got all the way quiet, like someone had locked the closed door inside her.
* * *
Rose had to search for parking among the vans and wagons—the practical family movers with their decals of stick-figure relations, stickers for karate, and a dozen varieties of awareness ribbons.
The boys strained to look out the windows, searching for familiar faces. Teammates. School friends. At the registration tents, Rose spotted the mom-with-the-implants. What was her name? She wondered if she was divorced yet. Rose felt bad for her.
* * *
Later, after she had found a parking space, the boys whined, chattering as she smeared their skin with sunscreen next to the parked car.
“You got it in my eyes.”
“Well then, Isaac, you’re a big kid, you can put it on yourself next time.”
Rose hated putting SPF on the kids as much as they hated having it put on. It brought out the worst in all of them, making the kids wiggly and impatient while turning Rose grouchy and snappish.
Adam was shivering. “It’s cold.”
“I warmed it up in my hands.”
“You didn’t even say sorry!”
Rose looked at Isaac. “What?”
“You got it in my eyes! You didn’t even say sorry.”
Isaac was scowling at her, his mouth hard. Next to him, Adam clutched his arms, gooseflesh rising in the wind.
“Say you’re sorry, Mom!”
Rose broke. Pissed at Isaac, hating that look on his face. She was angry. Angry that she had to be responsible for such a thankless task. Angry that he had the audacity to be angry with her. Angry that she even had to be on this shitty field, in this shitty wind, in this shitty town.
“I’m sorry, Zackie! Okay? I’m sorry!”
“Hi there!”
Rose turned to the bright voice behind her.
It was what’s-her-name. Mom-with-the-implants.
“Rose, right?”
Rose stood, wiping her hands on her jeans. “Sorry. We were having a moment.”
The other woman smiled. She put a sympathetic hand next to her cleavage. “No, no, I get it! Totally get it. I just … Isaac is on Simon’s team and I thought … maybe you could use a hand.”
She gestured over to the curb, where a good-looking blond boy was bouncing a ball on his knee. This must be Simon. Rose noticed the way he was aware of people watching him execute the trick. Exhibitionism ran in the family.
Her name flooded back to Rose. Kaitlin, her name was Kaitlin.
“Thank you. That would be great. That would be amazing.… Zackie?”
Isaac scowled at her. But he shouldered his bag, marching his way toward the curb. He was upset with her now, but hopefully by the time the game was over …
“Thank you, Kaitlin. Seriously. Thank you.”
Kaitlin glanced at Adam, who had pulled his legs up under his shirt and was balancing on the running board. Penny was beginning to pull at the straps of her car seat. “Don’t worry. My husband ‘works’ on Saturdays, too. It’s hard enough with one, I can’t imagine with three.”
Rose recognized the look on Kaitlin’s face.
It was pity.
* * *
Thoughts crowded Rose’s mind as she watched Adam’s team play.
She feels sorry for me.… She knew my name even though we’ve never spoken.… She knew about Josh, the kids …
Rose laughed, but it wasn’t funny.
People were talking about her. Just as they had been talking about Kaitlin and her boobs and her struggling marriage, they had been talking about Rose and her absent husband. Of course they had.
People thought she was pathetic. Barely keeping it going. And she hadn’t given them any evidence to the contrary.
Clouds were stacking against the mountain range. From this distance, Rose could see them piling against themselves. The wind was picking up.
* * *
They put the tournament on hold. Officials had run around pausing games still in play. Lightning had been spotted. Everyone was to head elsewhere and await word.
Rose was still collecting their things when the rain started down, pelting the stragglers running toward their cars. Rose struggled to keep a grip on the cooler, its plastic grips awkward in her hands. She was soaked by the time she reached the van. The boys watched her as she opened the back, their faces stoic.
Adam hadn’t had any problem leaving. He’d barely played, spending most of the game sitting on the sidelines.
But Isaac had been doing well. He had scored a goal (“You missed it, Mom”) and didn’t like being interrupted.
Rose tried to keep it positive as she climbed inside. She forced cheer into her voice. “They haven’t canceled it yet. Maybe it will clear up.”
Isaac frowned. “It won’t.”
Rose sighed and looked at her son.
Zackie. Little boy. Child of my body.
Sometimes I wish you weren’t so like me.
Adam blew a cloud onto the window. Drew a happy face in its mist.
“I’m hungry.”
* * *
There was a line of cars backing out of the McDonald’s drive-through; it wrapped around the building and curled onto the street. Through its windows Rose could see it was a madhouse of displaced soccer players, their damp heat fogging the plate glass.
Penny was wailing in the back. Rolling her head from side to side. Tired of being in the car. Rose knew how she felt.
“We could go inside.” This from Isaac.
“We’re not going inside.”
“We never go inside.”
Rose drove past the line of cars, searching. Hemsford was a small town, not much more than a pit stop off the highway on the way to better places. A few motels. A few more gas stations. On her way in, Rose had spotted a small Christian publishing factory. But other than that and the soccer fields, a two-minute drive gave you the entire tour of the small strip of its main drag. After that you had to turn around and head back.
Why would anyone live here?
Just before the turn, Rose spotted it.
“The Orange Tastee,” read the faded street sign. Next to the words was a cartoon of a manically grinning Orange with arms and legs. It wore an orange blossom as a hat and winked at the cars below.
For a second she thought it was shuttered, a relic of the town’s better days; but the lights inside were on and the paint on the windows declaring, “Soft Serve 99¢!” was fresh.
And its drive-through was empty.
Rose turned into its parking lot and the boys erupted into complaint.
“What is this place!”
“I want McDonald’s. I want a Happy Meal!”
“Change of plans, guys.” As long as this place didn’t serve rat-poop tacos, they were getting lunch here.
“Do they have Happy Meals?” Adam was whining, worried.
“I don’t know. Maybe. We’ll find out.”
Penny’s wailing changed pitch, picking up on the tension. Isaac crossed his arms. “You promised us Happy Meals. This place doesn’t have Happy Meals.”
Fuck fucking Happy Meals! thought Rose. With their cheap pieces of landfill fodder and pink slime burgers. I wish I’d never taken you to McDonald’s, so I wouldn’t have to hear about it all the time. So I wouldn’t give in to your whining. So I wouldn’t use it to give me five minutes of peace once a week.
But aloud she said, “Maybe they have something like a Happy Meal.”
Isaac dug in. “They don’t. Only McDonald’s has Happy Meals.”
“I want french fries. Do they have french fries?”
“You promised, Mom! You promised!”
Penny’s wails were high-pitched, piercing, cutting around the interior.
And then suddenly Rose was screaming.
“Quiet! Please! Just shut the hell up!”
Instant silence. The children stared at her. Stunned.
Rose rubbed her forehead.
“Are you okay?” crackled a deep voice.
No, thought Rose. I am not okay. Nothing about me is okay.
“Ma’am?”
Rose looked around for the source of the deep voice. Outside her window sat a fiberglass version of the winking Orange, its grinning teeth replaced with the battered grille of a speaker.
Rose looked at it for a moment. Trying to find her voice. Trying to find her sanity.
“Uh … Kid’s meals?”
“We got ’em.”
Rose took a breath. In the back, the kids were still silent. Frightened of their mother.
She managed, “Three, please.”
Rose pulled forward. Clutching the wheel. Knuckles white.
You do not cry in front of the kids. You do not cry in front of the kids.
But she was crying. She wiped at the hot welling in the corners of her eyes. Fighting it. Trying to calm the stress.
“Nine fifty, please.”
Rose looked over. At the pickup window a pair of hands held out three small bags.
Rose riffled through her purse, finding calm in this simple interaction. She could regain her hold of the situation. Reassure the kids. Maybe they were all just hungry. Some food would fix it. Some food would make it all go away. She handed over a twenty and took the bags, distributing them back.
“Make sure Penny only eats one fry at a time, okay, Isaac?”
Zackie nodded, stuffing fries into his mouth. Rose took a breath. It would get better.
“Your change.”
“Thanks.” Rose reached out to the pile of bills from the hands, looking up at the cashier holding them—
It was Hugo.