He hated this: this feeling of not being able to take everything in. Nervous, dropping the cans, looking around, head buzzing like a fly dodging his hand. Because he knew at any minute, out of nowhere, he could be hit over the head and knocked to the floor like one of those cans of soup, permanently dented and filling with toxins.
Because he was away from register, because cash was back in vogue, and his being so far away, about 200 feet or so by his estimate, was an automatic beacon for crooks armed with GPS trackers, spycam cracks and teleporters. If he wasn't beside the register to hit the button, the money would not be tubed to the main branch, and that shit would come out of his own pocket. But that's the catch. The store wouldn't hire an assistant or guard, so if he wanted to keep his job, which had taken him two years to get in the first place, he had to continually take the risk to restock the shelves.
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