“Policy Is Policy.”
The guard didn’t even pretend to be kind.
Arms crossed. Voice flat. “Sir, you can’t have a dog in here. Store policy. Either the animal goes or you do.”
The old man’s grip tightened on the leash.
He pulled the terrier closer—protective, instinctive, like someone had threatened to take his last piece of oxygen.
“She’s all I have,” he whispered.
His voice cracked on the last word.
The guard shrugged. “Policy is policy.”
The old man looked at the basket. Looked at the dog. Looked down at the bills.
And then he did something that made the whole line go quiet.
“Take it all off,” he said softly. “The milk, the bread, the eggs. Everything.”
