“Figures,” I muttered. “I was hoping it’d just be my knees.”
He laughed softly. Then his eyes grew serious.
“Arthur,” he said, his voice dropping. “Half this town is out there right now. When you dropped, it was like someone yelled ‘fire.’ People started shouting about how you helped them. The kid with the prom suit. The lady with the crib. The guy with the work boots. It was like listening to a roll call of miracles.”
I blinked at the ceiling. My throat burned.
“Some miracles are just math with a heart,” I murmured.
He squeezed my shoulder. “Whatever you’ve been doing in that store… it matters. A lot more than you think.”
As they wheeled me out, I caught a glimpse of the front of the shop. Faces pressed to the glass. People standing in the cold without their coats zipped. Hands lifted in little half-waves. I saw Lexi at the door, eyes red, the “Buttons” jar clutched to her chest like it was something sacred.
Later, in the hospital, after the machines had settled into a steady rhythm and the nurse had scolded me twice about my blood pressure, my store manager, Janet, came to visit. She’s in her fifties, practical, kind in a no-nonsense way. She always pretended not to notice when I took an extra five minutes on my breaks.
She set a card on my tray. It was thick with signatures. On the inside, people had written things like:
“Thank you for my ‘broken zipper.’”
“Couldn’t have gone to that interview without you.”
“You made me feel human again.”
At the bottom, in neat blue ink, Janet had written:
Arthur,
We know.
Come back when you’re ready.
We’ve started a new line item in the books. “Customer Dignity Allowance.” Corporate doesn’t read that far. We’ll make the numbers work.
You just keep doing what you do.
— J.
I laughed so hard the heart monitor beeped at me. I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand.
Turns out I’m not the only liar in the building.
Maybe I won’t be able to work forever. The doctors talk about “slowing down” like it’s a polite suggestion instead of a freight train headed my way. But as long as I can stand at that counter, as long as I can peel a sticker or invent a discount or look a scared kid in the eye and make him feel like a customer instead of a charity case, I’ll be there.
The world can keep its polished policies and clean spreadsheets.
I’ll take crooked labels, secret jars of “buttons,” and a whole lot of broken zippers any day.
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This story is a work of fiction created for entertainment and inspirational purposes. While it may draw on real-world themes, all characters, names, and events are imagined. Any resemblance to actual people or situations is purely coincidenta
