The cashier's real attention belonged to a crossword puzzle spread across a newspaper.

He glanced at Kimia, then at the indrel, then back down.

Good.

A yinglet worker farther inside was stocking items onto a shelf.

Male. Gray-brown fur. Store apron. Tabak cigarette hanging from one side of his mouth.

He printed price labels with a small mechanical device and slapped them onto packages or cans one after another.

Click. Stick. Click. Stick.

Smoke followed him.

Nobody cared.

Kimia wandered.

Not shopping exactly.

Looking.

The shelves contained an entire small civilization.

Soap. Toothpaste. Sliced loaves of regular or algae bread. Canned food. Junk food. Cheap razors. Tissues. Paper towels. Paper plates. Toilet paper. Batteries. Cigarettes. Tabak-chew in cans. Household bulbs. Stationery. Pain medicine. Cold medicine. Antihistamines meant to work as a sleep-aid. Pickled vegetables. Packets of dried meat. Powdered tiplod broth.

Things bought by people who had forgotten them at larger shops earlier in the day.

The human guard examined canned beans with scholarly intensity.

The indrel remained near Kimia.

A refrigeration unit occupied the rear wall.

Old. Open-air.

Its compressor made a faint grinding sound every few seconds, and some of the paint on it had worn off. 

Kimia listened.

Grinding.

Pause.

Grinding.

Something bearing inside was unhappy.

She crouched slightly.

Cold air spilled over her arms.

Top shelf.

Small cartons of tiplod milk sitting in open cardboard boxes. 

Kimia touched one.

Cool.

Another.

Colder.

She reached toward the rear and selected it.

Why?

No idea.

Milk.

Good enough.

She continued.

Pastries near the register.

Individually plastic wrapped. Cheap. Bright printing. Pendelfruit filling.

One package included, beneath several marketing phrases, the reassuring statement:

FORMULATED FOR YINGLET DIGESTION

Kimia read it twice.

“Bold claim.”

The night worker at the register looked over.

“What?”

“Nozhing.”

She picked one.

The ingredient list was longer than the pastry.

Some modified starch. Some algae flour. Fruit concentrate. Oil. Sugar. More sugar. Something industrial with twelve letters.

Yinglet-friendly.

Perhaps.

There was a shelf packed with foil bags containing fried tuber crisps near the pastries that had a cheery-looking baxxid on them. Kimia stared at one of the bags for a second. Her foremost thought was that baxxids aren't nearly as expressive as the bag art made them out to be. 

She brought both items to the counter.

The cashier looked up from his crossword.

Milk. Pastry. Kimia.

His eyes paused on her face.

There.

Recognition.

Not imagined.

Kimia felt it happen.

The Herald interview.

Of course.

The man glanced toward the televox, then back at her.

His expression did not change.

“Four twenty.”

No title. No bow.

Kimia loved him for this immediately.

She opened her wallet.

Five dalasi.

He returned coins.

“Thanks.”

“Have a good night.”

“You too.”

He went back to the crossword.

Kimia walked out.

The human guard bought something small purely to maintain the performance.

Chewing gum.

The indrel bought nothing because pretending had apparently not been included in its orders.

Outside again.

Cool air.

Kimia found a public bench half a block away.

Sat.

The indrel stood nearby.

The human guard leaned against a lamppost and opened the gum.

Kimia peeled open the tiplod milk carton and drank some, dwelling over the taste.

“Underwhelming.”

The guard looked toward her.

“What?”

“Nozhing.”

She drank more.

Watery. Very faint sweetness. Cold enough to be soothing.

That was sufficient.

Then the pastry.

Plastic crackled as Kimia tore it open. 

Kimia bit into it.

The filling claimed pendelfruit. It tasted like the memory of pendelfruit described to a committee.

Sweet. Too sweet. A little tartness. The pastry itself soft and faintly oily.

Still good.

Not good enough to think about.

Perfect.

She ate slowly.

People passed.

Two humans speaking quietly.

A baxxid delivery worker pulling a wheeled cart.

A young couple arguing over where they had parked.

Nobody looked twice at Kimia.

The indrel received more attention than she did.

This too pleased her.

She finished.

Carton.

Wrapper.

Trash bin.

Gone.

No ceremony.

Kimia stood.

Walked.

The night continued without offering meaning.

Good.

Several blocks later came shouting.

Laughter. Water.

Kimia slowed.

Ahead, a fire hydrant had been opened.

Not officially.

Water blasted sideways into the street in a hard silver stream beneath the lamps.

Five or six people had gathered around it.

Humans. Yinglets.