A Twizzler-thin girl with straw growing on her head and not quite filling the tube-top she holds up with one hand bobs on her toes beside the cardboard page-a-day calendar announcing the date eighteen years ago by which potential smokers must have been born and says, “Guess what? Today is my birthday!”
“Happy birthday. How old are you?”
“Seventeen. Can I have a pack of Marlboros?”
When I say no, she glares at me through the transparent plastic cylinder half-emptied of caramel Cowtales. I want to tell her I get it, that those are just numbers and not who she is. Something she was stuck with and nothing she asked for herself. I want to tell her all that but I don’t because the fines I would pay if I got caught are just numbers, too, but much bigger ones than her age.