So far, Miranda has been raising the son of her ex-lover. Ever since Dougie disappeared, she's treated Waylon as her own. Now, Dougie has called. Is he coming back for Waylon?

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I tossed and turned all night, and when I can see the pale pink of the sunrise peeking through the blinds in my bedroom I climb out of bed. I let the cool water of the shower wash off the crust of fatigue then pad into the kitchen for some strong coffee.

Waylon is still sleeping, curled up in a tight ball, the thin blanket I gave him for Christmas last year gripped tightly in his hands. I tiptoe over to where his phone is plugged in. No, I'm not going to go snooping through his phone, but I am going to check to see if his father has texted. I tap the screen the way I've seen him do to bring it to life. There are no symbols or notifications showing. Of course, Dougie wouldn't call or text. Why would he? He probably knows that Waylon would demand an explanation, or at the very least, an apology. I step away from the phone and start to brew my coffee. It's going to be a long day. Not just for me, but for Waylon too.

When he wakes up, I offer to give him a ride to school but he says the bus ride will give him think time. I wonder if he's afraid I'll lock horns with that teacher, Mr. Tomlin. I don't know what it is, but I become Mama Bear where that kid is involved.

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Rita finishes her lunch and goes out to check the trash cans in the parking lot. I usually do the outside stuff, but she noticed the bags under my eyes and told me to sit behind the counter and relax.

"How bad was it?" I ask as she comes in and heads for the ladies' room to wash her hands.

"Not terrible. I thought about taking a bucket of water out there and cleaning the pumps off. There are bug guts and dirt all over them."

"Don't. If Matt catches wind of this, he might make us do it all the time," I say, half joking.

"Okay. You don't have to twist my arm."

It's pretty dead in the store and after we sweep, clean the glass on the doors and restock the drink machine, Rita tells me to go to lunch. I walk back to the office, pull out my peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and pop the lid on my diet cola. I sink into Matt's over sized office chair. I watch the screens out of boredom.

I turn to toss my lunch trash into the trash when I see two women walking towards the store. Now, it's not odd that people are walking to the store, we have a few neighborhood kids who walk here all the time. What makes this weird is that they look suspicious. Two geriatric women with gray hair and cardigans on look to be up to something. They walk into the store and one heads to the back to the drink coolers and the other heads to where Rita is behind the counter. Rita starts talking to the woman. The woman points to something either at the front of the store or just outside of the store and Rita jumps up, follows the one lady out. I check the screens that show the parking lot. Nothing.

I'm just about to leave the office and go see what has their attention, but I see some movement on the screen. Lady number two, standing in the aisle where the wine is. She looks left, then right. She doesn't look at the camera, just around. She picks up a bottle of wine and slips it down her shirt. Then she picks another one and slips it in the other side.

Oh, no, no, no, not on my watch, grandma. I quietly open the office door and make my way over to where she is adjusting her bra straps. I hear the soft slosh of the liquid in her bottled boobs.

"Lactating?" I ask, slipping up behind her.

She jumps and I hear the glass clink in her shirt. "Where did you come from?" she asks.

"You looked like you needed some help. I just came to see if you needed some advice on your selection."

She smiles, a little more relaxed. She smiles like she's gotten away with her caper. "No, I don't see what I usually drink. But thank you." Her arms fold protectively across her. She lets out a little gasp as the glass hits her skin. The store is pretty cold so I'm sure the glass is chilled.

"I love your shirt," I say. "Where did you get it?"

"Don't remember. Look, I need to go." Impatiently, she inches towards the door. "I'll just be going now," she says.

"Oh, okay. You have a nice day." I say, but stay planted squarely in her path.

The door chimes and Rita calls my name. "Miranda, a lady said there was a suspicious character out by the dumpster."

I smile at the woman. "What a coincidence? I seem to have a suspicious character here as well."

Smuggles the wine thief's eyes go wide. She looks past me to the door, like she thinks she can make it out of the store.

I put my hands on my hips and smile knowingly at her. "You can try."

"Call 911! My heart, I think I'm having a heart attack."

If I thought she was serious, I would have called, but this was a desperate person grasping at straws. She looks at Rita.

"Should I call?" Rita asks, picking up the phone. When I shake my head, she replaces the receiver. "Uh, Miranda, what's going on?"

"Just a misunderstanding, Rita. I'm going to escort this nice lady to the office where we are going to straighten this out. Oh, Rita, will you ask that other nice lady to join us?"

The confused look on Rita's face is matched only by the shoplifter's incredulous look. "I know my rights."

"Well, we can always call the police, if that will make you more comfortable. Rita call the sheriff's office and ask him to send someone over." I wait, watching the incredulous look turn to one of panic.

"No, I'll go to the office with you."

I put my hand on her shoulder and she shrugs it off, sending one of the bottles out of the bottom of her shirt. It crashes on the floor, sending wine and glass as far as the eye can see.

"Damn, boobs aren't what they used to be. Pity."

As I lead her into the office, I hear Rita gasp, "What the hell is going on?"