I set the cupcake on a plate, then pile everything else in my arms; once upon a time I was a waitress at a breakfast chain, so I’m used to this sort of thing. Balancing the carton of juice under my chin, I reach for the ice cream and tuck it under an arm, then head for the door. I haven’t been gone more than three minutes, tops, but the fear she’ll be gone is real. So real that I’m starting to sweat. Perspiring with a frozen tub of chocolate Blue Bell under your arm is difficult, but I manage. Defying the odds is what I do.
    I push my way through the door, exiting backward.
    A deep voice stops me in my tracks, the sound reverberating off the walls and sending those previous alarm bells up a few decibels. The voice doesn’t belong here. Unless…
    “Are you her dad?” I ask, the question a little sharper and more suspicious than I intended.
     His eyebrows push together as he takes me in, and then looks at the girl again. “No, I was just—”
    “Then, who are you? And what are you doing here?” Sure this is a restaurant, but I’m not interested in chitchat. There’s something disconcerting about seeing a strange man sitting with a small child alone in a closed restaurant, even a man as clean and put together as this guy. His dark hair is flecked with shades of auburn. He’s wearing black expensive-looking pants, a cream button-down rolled at the sleeves, shiny dress shoes, and looks a little like he stepped off a movie set. Where did he come from? Certainly not from around here. He’s too dressed up to be useful, and too casual to have been affected by the storm. He’s more than likely a curious tourist or a well-paid journalist looking for a winning story.
    Or maybe my instinct for harsh judgment is what’s wrong with the world—everyone’s suspicious, everyone looks for the bad in others—but the feeling is there nonetheless. He’s sitting on a stool next to the little girl, one that he picked up off the floor and propped there without my permission, mind you. But even worse? The little girl is laughing.
    Here I am holding a carton of ice cream and a cupcake large enough to give all the kids at the neighborhood playground a sugar rush, and he gets the laughs. My competitive streak shoves compassion out of the way in a battle for dominance. And still, he hasn’t answered me. Maybe he didn’t hear me. Maybe he’s stubborn. Maybe his concern begins and ends with the girl. Regardless, I try again and speak louder. I’m too tired and stressed to give much thought about manners or hospitality.
    “Um…again, who are you? My store is closed for repairs, so would you mind stepping away from her and walking out the door?”
    I nod to the little girl, tough to do with milk balanced under your chin, but the man doesn’t move. He just looks at me with a raised eyebrow and an amused expression.
    That smirk.
    It irritates me.
    He’s way too confident. Even my heart thinks so…
    If the way it’s hammering inside my chest is any indication.