I watched Brandon look at her.
I watched him look at her uniform. At the rubber gloves. At the bleach-stained sneakers.
At the little girl, holding her mother’s hand. Watching. Listening.
I watched something move across his face. Something old. Something from a marble-floored bank in Chicago a long time ago.
Then he smiled.
“Good morning,” he said. Not loud. Not slow. Just normal. Just kind. “One ID is just fine. Let me take care of that for you.”
He took her check. He looked at her license for about two seconds. He slid it right back to her under the glass.
He counted out her money. Every bill. Slowly and carefully. Then he reached over and took the glass bowl off the counter. He held it out to the little girl.
“Would you like a peppermint?” he asked her.
The little girl looked up at her mother. Her mother nodded.
