I am standing in the box with a cart. A mother with a troubled son. My son is periodically pulling my cart from his side. I talk to him sometimes with disapproval, but for now I’m silent.
Suddenly I recall that the preservatives stockpile at home is close to completion. Not thinking for a long time, I take a pack for 12 pieces from the stand and throw it into my cart.
I see the child’s mother’s suspicious eyes.