THE TRANSACTION OF SOULS

The small brass desk lamp illuminated the woman's gnarled hands as she fumbled inside the dark interior of her bag. Toby watched, his chest aching with a sudden, overwhelming wave of melancholy.

She didn't pull out a leather wallet or a sleek credit card. Instead, her fingers emerged holding a crumpled knot of paper money and a handful of oxidized copper coins.

One by one, her shaking hands smoothed out the bills against the dark quartz counter next to the wrapped turkey sandwich.

A crumpled, torn one-dollar bill. A stained two-dollar bill, yellowed at the corners. Three quarters. Two dimes. Four pennies.

The total price of the sandwich was eight dollars and fifty cents. The pile sitting on the glass counter amounted to barely three dollars and eighty-nine cents.

The old woman looked down at the pathetic scatter of currency. Her bottom lip began to quiver uncontrollably. She pressed her thin hands together against her chest, her pale eyes swelling with hot, clear tears that overflowed her lower lids, tracking down the deep, dirt-smeared crevices of her cheeks.

"I... I thought I had more," she choked out, her voice breaking into a wet, desperate sob that tore through the quiet bakery. She looked up at Toby, her eyes wide with a profound, terrifying humiliation. "I'm so sorry, son. I haven't eaten since yesterday morning. The wind... the wind took my umbrella, and I thought... I thought I had enough."

She began to gather the coins with trembling fingers, her nails scraping uselessly against the quartz counter in her rush to hide her poverty. "I'm sorry. I'll go. I don't have enough."

Toby stared at the money. In that single, shattered moment, the crushing weight of his own fear—the anxiety about the syndicate, the terror of Arthur Pendelton, the dread of his own uncertain future—seemed to vaporize, replaced by a fierce, protective instinct.

He reached out across the counter. His warm, young hand gently covered her trembling, spotty fingers, stopping her from sweeping the coins back into her purse.

"Stop," Toby said softly.

She froze, looking up at him with wide, tear-filled eyes.

Toby reached under the counter, swiped his own employee discount card through the register terminal, and took the crumpled bills from her palm. He opened the cash drawer, reached into his own apron pocket, pulled out a five-dollar bill from his tips for the week, and dropped it cleanly into the till.

The register chimed CLINK-CLACK, its green digital screen displaying a balance of zero.

Toby lifted the warm, wrapped turkey sandwich and placed it directly into her weathered hands. He smiled—a genuine, warm, and resolute smile that reached all the way to his tired eyes.

"I'll take care of it," Toby said softly, his voice unwavering. "Enjoy your food, ma'am. You're safe inside."

The old woman stared down at the warm bundle in her hands. The relief that washed over her face was so intense it looked like physical pain. She squeezed her eyes shut, weeping silently as her frail body shook beneath her soaked brown coat.

"Thank you, son," she wept. "Thank you... you don't know what you've done."

"Cough."

A harsh, dry sound erupted from the hallway behind the kitchen doors.