by Jen Bryant

The heavy glass door hasn’t even finished swinging shut before the guy behind the counter says something dumb.

“Ah – there they are! The raptors.”

The brass shop bell that announced our arrival falls silent. I roll my eyes and turn away, hoping to signal my disinterest.

“On the prowl again, are we?” he leers.

I shrug and walk past the hot dogs sizzling on their metal rollers, wrinkling my nose at the smell. My sister trails behind.

At 15 and 12, we’re too old for the babyish pursuits that once kept us occupied after school: dolls, bikes, Nickelodeon. On sticky-hot fall afternoons like this, the hours between school and dinner seem to stretch forever. Sometimes we wander along the train tracks, testing our balance on the rusted rails, or stand on the overpass and count the cars whizzing by below, lightly punching each other’s arms whenever we spot a VW Bug.

Today, we scrounged up enough loose change to get snacks from the mini mart up the street. We didn’t notice the guy behind the counter in time to bail.

His name might be Jeff, or maybe it’s Jess – I can’t remember. Who cares? He’s old, 30 at least, with a greasy flop of hair carefully arranged across his balding head. Every time I buy something, he makes me count each coin directly into his sweaty palm. Sometimes he curls his nicotine-stained fingers around mine and squeezes until I squirm.

Now he’s watching as my sister reaches into the cooler for a Dr Pepper.

“You break, you buy!” Jeff says, laughing at his own stupid joke.

“You can’t break a plastic bottle,” my sister mutters, but she closes the cooler door all the same.

Jeff perks up. I sigh. Here we go.

“You know why I call you the raptors, don’t you?” he asks, peering over the top of his smudged glasses.

“Nope,” I reply, pretending to read the ingredient label on a bag of Doritos.

He ignores my cues. “It’s the way you move. Always on the hunt.” He looks me up and down. “Sometimes I think you’re up to something.”

His eyes linger on my legs. The air conditioning unit coughs and sputters to life. I shiver, suddenly wishing I’d worn jeans instead of shorts.

I put the Doritos back and steer my sister towards the candy aisle. We step carefully around half-full cardboard boxes abandoned mid-stock. Above us, the fluorescent lights buzz and flicker.

They’re giving me a headache, and I’m ready to get out of here. I grab a Snickers. My sister is less decisive, picking up candy bars and setting them down again. When I glance up, Jeff is still staring.

“It’s a good thing you girls are a couple of cuties,” he says, winking. “Otherwise I might have to kick you out for loitering.”

Gross. I step closer to my sister, trying to shield her from his gaze.

The bell over the door chimes. A short, stooped man in a faded camouflage jacket walks in.

“Ten dollars on pump three,” he rasps, counting out ones from a crumpled wad of bills. He points at the cigarette display behind the counter. “And lemme get some Newport Lights, too. Soft pack.”

When Jeff turns to get the Newports, my sister catches my eye, and I can tell we’re both thinking the same thing: Screw this creep. Stuffing candy bars into our pockets, we rush towards the door.

“Hey, you can’t do that!” Jeff yells, but it’s too late. We’re already running, flip-flops slapping against the cracked asphalt as the mini mart recedes behind us.

I glance back, long hair whipping against my cheek. Jeff is doubled over in the parking lot, hands on his knees. Our legs pump faster until he’s just a tiny speck in the distance, and then he’s gone.

Jen Bryant’s writing has appeared in The Sun, Ms., BUST, Cleaver, In a Flash, Anodyne Mag, and elsewhere. She is an editor at MUTHA Magazine, a creative nonfiction reader for Mud Season Review, and a 2025 Ucross Foundation Fellow in Nonfiction. Originally from the South, she currently lives in the Midwestern US.