"Mommy?"
Jake pauses, mop in hand. The (five year old?) kid's dad hitches his shoulders tensely, while juggling a sniffling baby with one arm and a bowl of grits with the other.
"Mommy's gone, Dean."
The baby begins to cry, his stockinged feet beating an erratic rhythm on his father's worn Wranglers, and Dean is quiet.
Fifteen minutes or so pass before they've finished. Jake rings them up.
"Kids're free Wednesday mornings," he says casually.
They're not. The guy doesn't need to know that.
The bell jingles on their way out. Jake takes the cost out of his date money.
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