The work itself isn't bad. It's not really hard or demanding. It's monotonous but he doesn't really mind. He shows up when the store is quiet. An odd customer here and there, nurses who work all hours, druggies who don't know the hour, but it's slow. He's gone in few times during the day, mornings when he couldn't sleep or on Thursdays to get his check, and the place is a madhouse. He's in and out, head down.

Daryl always goes in the side door. He will never say it's because he likes to walk past the floral department, but it's late fall, just before Thanksgiving, and that whole side of the store smells like cinnamon. It also doesn't hurt that there is no one working over there past ten. He doesn't have to exchange hello's or even nod at anyone until he's rolling out U-boats of crackers or soup or baby formula for whatever aisle he's working.

Some nights he hears the registers, still beeping and pinging away past midnight.

Some of the guys on the night crew wear headphones, ignore everything around them. Daryl was never good at that, he could never help catching every detail around him. He always had his eyes open, ears sharp. Observant.

The kid with the neck tattoo, he's got some crappy punk band blaring away around his neck while he barks out directions.

Daryl likes the guy who does the floors. He hums to himself, goes through the store on the same path every night. That guy just nods and keeps going.

They break around three in the morning. It's just enough time for a cigarette, maybe a coffee if he feels like spending the money.

He goes outside, pulling up the collar of his flannel against the wind before he finds a spot against the wall. The bread truck is pulling out of the lot, guy drives like an asshole, and after it drives past he sees her.

Daryl doesn't mean to stare.

She's wearing the ugly yellow polo shirt that all the cashiers wear. Her hair is pulled back and messy. The coffee in her hands is obscenely big and she's staring at the sky. The way she moves, it's little steps and a slight bend of her knee. She almost twirls and when she turns he catches it, a brilliant smile followed by an excited gasp. His eyes flick up to the sky just in time to see the tail end of a shooting star.

"Did you see it?"

He takes a drag of his cigarette and nods. "Yeah."

She's smiling at him.

He stares at his boot, toe twisting out the cigarette butt. She right in front of him when he looks up.

"We're connected now you know."

"What're you talkin' about?"

"The star. We both saw it, I mean I know they happen all the time, but people…I don't think I've ever seen the same one as someone else before."

"It ain't a big deal."

"It is to me."

Daryl shakes his head. "Don't mean nothing Beth."

She cocks her head, smiling at him. "How'd you know?"

He starts walking back in, the automatic door welcoming him. "Name tag's on your shirt."

He's never had a job with insurance before.

Daryl goes to the dentist on Tuesday.

He's been before, can't remember exactly when but that feeling of nervous discomfort is familiar.

It's not that bad, surprisingly. At least that's what the hygienist says as he spits out red tinted water into that little sink. Daryl thinks about her smile as he watches his blood swirl down the drain. She probably does this. She's one of those people, the ones who have gone every six months like they say you should.

He has to get a tooth pulled. One in the back.

He makes another appointment when he leaves and suddenly he's one of those people that's gonna get their teeth cleaned every six months.

Days off are strange. His schedule is skewed, hours sliding around so the alarm clock coincides with the time clock. He steps out of the office as they're getting ready to close and spends more time than he'd like to admit trying to decide where to go. His tongue feels too big for his mouth as it glides over his clean teeth.

There's a bookstore across the street.

It's one of those places with coffee and comfortable chairs.

He touches the new glasses in his pocket, he brought them for the paperwork, but it's been awhile since he's read anything without having to fight off a headache.

The place is small and when he sits down he just thinks about staying there until they kick him out.

It's quiet and he reads.

Wonders about the things his brother carries around now that he's back. Maybe it's harder now, missing a hand.

Daryl has to put the book down.

He doesn't want to think about what his dad carries.

He's glad he was never one for camo, he's dragging enough shit around without having had a helmet on his head and a flag weighing him down.

He thinks of her when he's laying in bed. The pinkish grey of dawn is the backdrop for her smile as he closes his eyes.