I grab Mom’s list and limp out the door.

Hotwire Dad’s truck.

Roll over loose gravel quiet as I can.

Two lefts. One right to the corner store.

Old Sophia nods at me, her lips a tight straight line.

I start with day-old bread. Peanut butter. Jelly.

Next, eggs and orange juice.

No. Grape juice won’t hurt my split lip.

Wait. Can’t forget frozen peas.

Two bags. One for Mom’s face. One for mine.

Duct tape’s less than bandaids.

Old Sophia shakes her head. ‘Not enough for aspirin, hon.’

My shoulders sink.

She slips a pack of cookies into the Have a Nice Day bag.

Slides it to me, her smile sad and forced.

‘Thanks,’ I croak as I leave.

I pull out a cookie for the ride home.