She moved through the store with practiced efficiency, counting every dollar with the precision widowhood demanded. At checkout, the clerk asked, “Paper or plastic?” Eleanor managed a thin smile. “Whichever’s cheaper.” Outside, the cart rattled over the asphalt. Wind tugged at loose receipts. She loaded the bags into the trunk slowly, fingers aching.
“Almost home,” she muttered—then hated the word home for how empty it had become. No one waiting. No dog at the door. Rex used to hear her engine before she turned onto the street. Michael used to laugh. “Better security than the base perimeter.” Rex had been Michael’s shadow—trained, disciplined, loyal to the bone.