Rolling in the Deep by Rebecca Rogers Maher

for you.”
    “Okay. Right. Listen, thanks, Timmy. For, you know—”
    “Shut it, Lopez. Go roll around on a bed full of hundred-dollar bills or something.”
    I laugh. “What’s in that cigarette, man?”
    “Wouldn’t you like to know?” He points his fingers into a gun shape and pretends to shoot me. “Get the fuck out of here already.”
    “Yeah. Okay.” I salute him one last time and head into the store.
    The lights on the floor are bright and severe compared to the stockroom, and my eyes take a minute to adjust.
    My ears, too. As soon as I open the door a rush of sound barrels into me—the electric whir of the track lights overhead, the wailing of a child one aisle down, the awful light-rock music playing on the intercom. The buzz of shoppers arguing, sighing, pushing against heavy carts piled with stuff.
    I walk through the aisles on the way to the break room and take in the racks and baskets that fill every corner of available space. Plastic toys, synthetic clothing, giant televisions—I picture all of it stacked up for miles on top of a landfill someday. And that day won’t be too far off, judging by the quality of the material, by the fact that it’s built to break so that consumers will buy more.
    A young woman in her twenties passes by with a cart full of meat and DVDs, and all of a sudden what I most want to do is turn around and run.
    I come to a standstill in the middle of the aisle.
    I can do that now, if I want to.
I can run. I don’t have to be here anymore. I can be anywhere I want, go anywhere I want. Be anyone I want to be.
    I don’t have to stand here smelling the plug-in air freshener. Or breathing in the fine layer of weirdly chemical dust that coats every item in this store, which we can never fully clean.
    I can leave.
    But the woman with the cart next to me can’t. She can’t afford to shop anywhere else. All my coworkers, waiting for me in the break room with a cake to celebrate my lottery win—they can’t leave. They need this job, just like I did a few days ago.
    I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with that.
    From the other side of the media section Chris calls out to me. “There he is.” He gestures toward an open door at the back and then turns to announce my arrival. A chorus of cheers goes up as I approach the door, and inside, a cluster of balloons and a sheet cake wait on a table surrounded with chairs.
    “All right, Ray! You made it. Congrats, man. Sincerely.”
    Everyone in the room claps, and my eyes immediately find Holly, standing awkwardly in the back of the room. It’s strange seeing her here in the store without her uniform on. She’s wearing a denim skirt and a worn-looking yellow T-shirt, and looks like one of Charlie’s Angels. My heart contracts, and I take an involuntary step forward.
    Chris follows my gaze. “Holly got here first, yeah. Sorry. She gets the first slice of cake. Hol? What do you say?”
    She smiles at him and comes forward. They’ve worked together for a few years, I think. Chris is an older guy, in his late sixties. A retired schoolteacher who puts in part-time hours. He sets a fatherly arm around Holly’s shoulders and guides her to the cake.
    “We don’t have long, unfortunately. Timmy’ll have my ass if I’m not out on the floor in a minute.” He clears his throat while Holly begins cutting and handing out slices. “Listen, everyone. I just want to take a minute to raise a glass—or a plate, I should say—to these two lucky people you see before you. Holly here is an old buddy, and Ray, we only just met you but you seem like a stand-up guy, and you did hook our girl up with some serious cash, so thank you.”
    Holly hands him a slice of cake, and he grins at her. The whole room, in fact, is grinning, and I look around at their faces—these people who could have been my friends. They stand together, shoulder to shoulder, and regard Holly and me as though we’re aliens. Which of course we are now. One by one, they