The hospital across the street never really slept.
Even at 9:45 p.m., when I was counting down the last fifteen minutes of my shift, the emergency room lights glowed harsh and steady through our front windows. Ambulances came and went like clockwork. Families paced on the sidewalk.
Some cried. Some stared blankly at nothing.
I worked the evening shift at a small convenience store wedged between a pharmacy and a coffee shop. We sold snacks, magazines, cheap jewelry—and, for some reason, a narrow aisle of discounted perfumes near the back wall.
That’s where I first saw her.
She couldn’t have been older than eleven.
Thin. Oversized gray hoodie. Hair pulled back in a messy ponytail that looked like she’d done it herself.
She stood in the perfume aisle with both hands shoved into her sleeves, like she was trying to make herself smaller.
I noticed her because she’d been there a while.
She would take a bottle down, carefully twist off the cap, spray it into the air, then close her eyes and inhale. Not dramatically. Just a quiet, steady breath.
Then she’d check the price tag, frown slightly, and put it back.
Over and over.
I watched her through the convex mirror mounted near the ceiling. I’d worked retail long enough to recognize hesitation. This wasn’t casual browsing.
It was something else.
At 9:55, I made the announcement.
“Just a reminder, we’ll be closing in five minutes.”
She didn’t look up. She reached for the smallest bottle on the bottom shelf—clear glass, pale pink liquid inside. I knew the one.
It was our cheapest brand.
She sprayed it once into the crook of her elbow and pressed her nose to her sleeve.
Her shoulders trembled.
Then she slipped the bottle into her hoodie pocket.
My stomach dropped.
I stepped out from behind the counter and moved toward the door just as she did. When she reached for the handle, I said quietly, “Hey.”
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