She went to the grocery store on a Monday, and as far as she could tell, it had been just like any other Monday in all regards. Nothing truly seemed to be out of place that day, and she was certain of it, because she had been turning that day over in her mind for just about a week now, and simply couldn’t make sense why it’d been that day that it happened.

The cold air clung to her skin at once as she entered the store that day, as all grocery stores seemed to be the coldest place on the planet. The air bit into her nerves, seeping deeper into her bones. She began at once for the produce, which was always the coldest part of stores, so she liked to get it over with quickly.

She picked out a bundle of carrots, then ripped off a plastic bag and threw some beets inside, and then she finally grabbed one bunch of bananas. After contemplating whether she needed more, she went to the bakery section next, glazing her eyes over the rows and rows of different breads. She wasn’t sure what kind she wanted at the time, as there were just so many to choose from. There were sweet breads like the brioche buns or the challah bread, and then there were the savory ones, like the baked breads or garlic breads. She settled for a warm, baked sourdough bread and moved on to the next thing on her list.

The grocery was quiet that day, which the woman thought was somewhat unnatural for a Monday, as usually at the beginning of the week the store was filled with leftover shoppers who had forgotten to get their groceries the weekend before. That was why she usually went there on Tuesdays, which happened to be a much quieter day, as opposed to Monday, and not quite as packed. She hadn’t wanted to go today, but she had a doctor’s appointment tomorrow and wasn’t quite sure how long that would take, so she thought she would take her chances.

The woman began down the pasta aisle, searching extensively for the brand of angel hair pasta she loved. When she couldn’t find it on the first run down of the aisle, she turned around and went one more time, figuring that perhaps she overlooked it. She didn’t really like asking for help finding items; she didn’t want to bother anyone with her problems. Somewhere nearby, there was a child crying quite loudly, and she found that was making it somewhat hard to focus. It had to have been only a couple aisles over, but, putting it out of her mind as best as she could, she finally found the pasta she was looking for.

She returned to her grocery list, looking over it thoroughly.

The woman then made her way almost lazily to the baking aisle next, glancing down at pepper and thyme messily scribbled across the sheet of paper. When she arrived, she was met with the wall of spices; she always had trouble with just how many items were all placed so closely together. Everything on the shelf looked just about the same as the item next to it.

The childish crying became louder, and she realized it was now even closer than before. Then something small bled into the view of her peripherals, something moving.

It was a small boy, no more than four or five, standing alone at the end of the baking aisle. He had brown messy hair, falling into his face like a pair of curtains, and eyes that looked like they were usually green; although for the time being, they were red and puffy, tears stricken down his face in rivers. Clutched within his right fist was a stuffed animal rabbit, as if he were strangling it.

The woman stared at the boy, though only briefly. Gripping his rabbit, eyes red and swollen, snot running from his nose—her heart ached for him. But the boy hadn’t seen her yet, and she had plenty on her plate as it was . . . so the woman turned back to the spices; found the elusive pepper and thyme; then she turned the other way, leaving the aisle. She had faith that the boy’s mother or father was around here somewhere, looking for him all over the store. They certainly wouldn’t leave without him.

The woman put the child out of her mind, heading down the snack aisle, and picking out a bag of unsalted potato chips. She’d been trying to quit them for months now, but she supposed that was one habit she’d never be able to kick. She pushed her shopping cart out of the aisle, heading down the store—still hearing the cries of the boy, distant yet nearby. Really, she thought, what kind of parent were you if you couldn’t keep your eyes on your own child? If they were able to be so easily lost in a grocery store?

Finally, the woman went down the candy aisle, grabbing a bag of Sweetarts, and continued down the aisles. She realized now that there was just about no one in sight. The store was especially empty today; and, thinking on this now, she realized that she’d forgotten something over in the produce area.

Along the back wall in produce were bunches of kale in rows, red and green, right next to the peppers and broccoli. She grabbed only one bunch, stuffed it in a plastic bag, and glanced down at her list to make sure she hadn’t forgotten anything else.

The crying of the little child came back again.

It was a sharp wailing now, a shriek that almost seemed to be dancing along the border of a desperate scream. Then she realized it was growing nearer, and the woman saw why.

The little boy was being carried over the shoulder of a tall man. He was wearing a yellow hat quite low over his face, though she could quite clearly see he had a scruffy beard and a pair of thin framed glasses the color of brass. He even had a thin scar that divided a part of his bottom lip, like something you’d see on the main character of an old western movie. The boy was kicking his feet, crying bloody murder, the way children do when you don’t give them what they want.

The woman watched them as they were approaching the exit, the child kicking his feet, flailing his arms, just about screaming now, and she wondered what the man, who she could only assume was the father, hadn’t given the child. It could have, in all honesty, been anything; the boy could have wanted a candy bar, and his father had said no, and he just broke. Children simply didn’t have the awareness to know that you shouldn’t shriek like you’re being murdered in the middle of a grocery store.

As they passed her, the man turned to observe her, just a few steps from the exit. He saw her staring at him, at the crying child slung over his shoulder like a book-bag. His eyes had frozen for the slightest, almost inconceivable moment. If she had blinked, she surely would have missed it. Then he gave her an almost sheepish smile and shrugged, as if to say, Kids, right?

Then he was gone. Out the door, child on his shoulder. And his cries carried through the door, nothing but an echo.

Then they were silenced as the doors closed.

The woman had momentarily forgotten what she was doing. She barely felt the paper in her hand, her shopping list, because she now felt an odd feeling deep in her stomach.

Then she remembered she was holding the list, remembered that she had to buy her groceries, and began to push her cart again, heading for the check-out lines. They weren’t as long as she had been expecting, though it probably would have gone by just as fast anyways; it all seemed to blur by.

As did her walking to her car. Then the drive home, too.

She didn’t even truly recall putting away her groceries once she got home; she only remembered finally laying to rest in bed that night . . . only she simply couldn’t. The minutes seemed to go by ever so slowly, her mind replaying the events of the day back and forth. At first, she hadn’t realized why, hadn’t realized why the day kept replaying over and over in her mind.

But as if rewinding, she heard the cries of the child, echoing relentlessly, out one ear and back in the other as if her brain were a broken gramophone. They followed her into the shallow sleep she had eventually fallen into.

It had been a week since.

The woman had still all but forgotten the events of that day. But she got up that day, another Tuesday just like any other during the year, had gotten dressed, climbed into her little car, and began to drive down the highway that took her to the grocery. When she arrived, something once again felt off. She sat in her car, the engine still running, feeling that same rotten feeling deep in the gorge of her stomach, that she felt the week before, as if her own body remembered before she was able to remind herself. She looked out her window, out at the grocery looming over her.

She killed the engine and got out.

The cold autumn air crawled along her skin as she traversed the half-empty parking lot. The familiarity of the slow Tuesday afternoon, devoid of customers, brought her a dull sense of safety and relief. But there was something off about it, a new sense of unfamiliarity. Gooseflesh prickled along her body. She rubbed her arms through her light coat, though it brought no effect.

She approached the entrance sluggishly, almost as if she were still dreaming. She knew she wasn’t—the past week she had lived still remained vivid in her mind, and there was no excuse to escape it. Then she saw the large piece of paper pinned to the doors. There was a young face on it. Her heart sank.

It was a missing person’s poster. She had seen it right away, the large letters in thick bold that read MISSING, looming above the kind photographed face. The photo was of a small boy, messy brown hair, green eyes. In the chosen photo, he was even holding a rabbit. Underneath it was a printed photo of surveillance camera footage, and she recognized the image immediately, as if she had been there. Because she had been there.

It was a photo of that man she’d seen, carrying the boy over his shoulder, heading out the doors. The yellow hat atop his head, obscuring his face from the cameras.

And below it all, a single line that read, If you know anything about this man, contact the Hawthorne Police Department immediately.

His smile came back to her. Lightly scarred, sheepish, almost shy. Her vision blurred with growing tears.

“Oh, that’s just awful,” a voice said beside her.

She turned then, startled by the suddenness of the voice. She met another woman beside her, one who was a little bit younger than herself, and wiped her own tears away.

“I can’t believe someone would do such a horrendous thing,” the young woman said. Then she took a closer look, observing the poster. Her hand went to her mouth. “Oh dear . . . I was supposed to go shopping that day. I had gone the next day instead.” She sighed so heavily it could have brought down the sky. “If I had been there, I would have . . . oh, I would have done something. He was probably screaming so loud for his mother. I bet he was.”

The screams came back to her. The cries, the kicks, the flailing of the arms. The desperate fighting back.

“Oh, I would have done something,” the young woman said. Then she went through the doors of the grocery.

The woman stood alone at the doors, feeling her grocery list in her pocket, unnaturally present, staring at the poster—and tried her best to remember every detail of the man’s face she possibly could. She saw the scar, clear as a canyon across the earth. She saw the smile, the stubbly beard—the brass-colored, thin glasses—and began for her car. In her mind, she couldn’t fail to see the entire day, vivid and clear, as if it were playing on a television.

She could remember it all too well.