(ORION)
"It was strange," a young woman's soft voice pulls my attention from the bag of chips I'm deciding if I need.
When I struggle to remember the last time I went grocery shopping, I snag the bag and toss it into my basket before moving down the aisle.
As I make my way around the store, tossing more needed items in my basket—toothpaste, bread, and soup—I try to ignore the continued yapping of the small white dog I passed in a silver Nissan Altima parked outside the grocery store.
"I'm sure they'll be okay," Fergus Deane, owner of the Winter Lake grocery store, responds.
I glance over at the front counter. He's busy bagging up her groceries as the woman stands with her back to me, her blonde hair secured in a long braid.
I don't mean to eavesdrop, but the shop is small and shifter hearing makes it harder to ignore than it is to listen. After grabbing a box of cereal, I head for the liquor aisle.
