Page 4 of Diesel

“Wine,” Irene said.

“Anything but wine.”

“Spoilsport.”

Parking the shuttle in the handicap zone took exactly thirty seconds. I grabbed my phone and wallet, locked up, and followed my crew through the automatic doors. Budget Foods smelled like floor cleaner and rotting produce, a combination that should’ve been reported to the health department but somehow passed inspection every year.

“I’ll grab a cart,” I announced to no one in particular.

I found one near the entrance and gave it a test push. The front right wheel immediately veered left like it was trying to escape. Just great.

“This one’s broken,” I called out, but everyone had already scattered. Irene was beelining toward the wine section with alarming speed for someone who needed a cane. That cane was apparently necessary only until the Pinot Grigio came within range.

Walter had entered Budget Foods like the produce aisle was about to photograph him for GQ: Medicare Edition.

Greta was examining a display of potato chips like she was about to receive a divine revelation from a bag of sour cream and onion. While Edith was clutching those coupons like somebody was lurking nearby waiting to steal her thirty-five cents off Greek yogurt.

This wasn’t grocery shopping. It was supervised release. They’d hit those automatic doors and had immediately become five independent side quests.

I stuck with the cart, gave it another shove, the wheel squeaking in protest, and continued its leftward trajectory. Fine. We’d work together. Me and this cart against the world or at least against the fluorescent lighting and Muzak version of “Wonderwall” currently assaulting my eardrums.

Irene was in the wine aisle, naturally. She’d already selected a bottle of Pinot Grigio and was reading the label.

“Miss Irene.”

“Oh, hello, Oliver. Just browsing.”

“Browsing. Right.” I stopped the cart next to her, fighting to keep it from careening into the display of Pinot Grigio. “You know you can’t have that.”

“It’s just one bottle.”

“One bottle that will interact with your medication and send your blood pressure into the stratosphere.”

“My blood pressure is fine.”

“Your blood pressure is fine because you’re not drinking wine.” That argument was airtight, and Irene was deeply offended by its logic.

She huffed, clutching the bottle tighter. “I’m seventy-six years old. If I want a glass of wine with dinner, I should be allowed to have one.”

“Take it up with your cardiologist. I’m just the guy who has to explain to your daughter why you’re in the ER.”

“Tattletale,” she said again but set the bottle back on the shelf. “You’re no fun.”

That was her official designation for me whenever I interfered with her criminal enterprise. Tattletale. “I’m loads of fun. Just not the kind that involves medical emergencies.”

“Fine. But I’m getting sparkling cider.”

“Sparkling cider is acceptable,” I said like this was a hostage negotiation. She’d surrendered the Pinot but secured sparkling cider in the settlement.

She grabbed a bottle of cider with more force than necessary and dropped it into my cart. The impact made the cart lurch sideways, and I had to wrestle it back into submission.

“This cart is possessed,” I said.

“Everything in this store is possessed. Have you seen the price of chicken?”

Valid point. I followed her through the store, collecting items while fighting the cart’s ongoing rebellion. I managed to intercept Walter before he bought a bag of hard candy that would’ve destroyed his dentures, stopped Greta from purchasing a jar of pickles so large it qualified as a weapon, and prevented Edith from buying tuna in bulk because they were on sale and she had a coupon.

“But it’s a good deal,” Edith protested.