My twelve-year-old son is conducting research, interviewing as many people as he can at the Hugo’s Supermarket downtown. He’s on a mission and there’s no stopping him. His statistical analysis involves the following variables: person, car driven, and favorite soda. I’m not sure which is the dependent variable, but I’m sure he’ll correlate vehicles with soda type soon. Maybe make a discovery he can sell to Pepsi. That’s his favorite one, after all.

He will approach possible participants, standing inches from their faces for questioning.

I worry how nervous they will be with him so close. Wonder if they’ll be irate. Worried they’ll catch COVID. But he doesn’t really take no for an answer, because he’s learned persistence is key to get the information he wants. I feel for him, ache knowing he might be rejected, or possibly yelled at. Sometimes I wonder if it’s harder on me.

I often feel like an outside observer, watching the stranger’s bodies for signs of flight. Signs of agitation. I analyze their grip on the shopping cart. I watch their eyes. Do they look him in the eye or fixate on cereal and candy displays, as if they couldn’t be bothered? Do they cross their arms across their chest or turn to face him? A part of me wants to veer him from people, to keep him safe from cruelty, but I remember when I didn’t even know if he’d ever speak, and this stops me stepping in.

He runs ahead, approaching an older woman. The woman brushes aside a strand of gray hair, moving it from her rosy, round cheek. She’s bundled in a floppy cloth jacket, wearing pink plastic glasses, and a mask.

Her cart has two types of soda. There’s Schweppes Ginger Ale in a two liter and Mountain Dew in a twelve pack. He’s furrowing his brow staring at them. Maybe he wonders who she’s buying them for. There’s a moment’s hesitation from him. Finally, he nods, and approaches her with confidence.

He touches the edge of her cart and says, Who is the ginger ale for?

She pulls down her mask to talk to him. It’s mine. She smiles. I relax.

What’s your name? he asks her.

Sue, she tells him.

Who is the Mountain Dew for? he asks.

It’s mine, she says.

What kind of car do you drive?

A blue one. She runs a hand through her tousled gray hair.

Make?

Ford.

Model?

Er—Sue bites her lip. A Fusion.

Yep, mmhmmm, he says, lower than normal. That’s a Sudan with five seats. Yep, mmhmmm. I know he’s trying to impersonate a car salesman.

What’s your name? Sue asks.

He leaves without answering, on to the next potential participant.

I say, Thanks, before chasing after him again.

I might forget most of this. So might Sue.

But my son will remember the logo on Sue’s jacket, how she smelled faintly of cigarettes, her favorite soda, and her vehicle. I know because he’ll tell me about it. Even when it’s been a year since he met Sue. He’ll recall it was February 25, 2021, on a cold winter’s day, when Sue became his friend in Hugo’s, if only for a little while.

-Brigid Pine

Brigid Pine is an emerging writer who consumes dairy-free ice cream whenever possible. Her nonfiction has been published with Pithead Chapel, Chaotic Merge, and Barren. She’s tinkering with twitter at @brigidpine