Peter got out of work early—some IT issue resolved faster than expected, nobody else looking to kill time on a Thursday afternoon. He took the long way home, just to stretch the drive, maybe run an errand.
At a stoplight on Lomas, he glanced to his right—and there she was.
Janice.
Sitting outside a coffee shop with Jill and Bea, the two girls from 7-Eleven.
Janice had her knitting bag with her, looped around the chair. She was smiling, mid-laugh, holding a paper cup with both hands.
The other two looked relaxed. Familiar.
They weren’t customers bumping into each other. They were friends.
The light turned green.
Peter drove on, but the image sat like a stone in his chest.
Later, at home, he waited for a lull in conversation and said, “I’m just heading to 7-Eleven. Want anything?”
Janice looked up from her yarn. “Nope, all good.”
He nodded. “Right.”
No suspicion. No reaction. Just... nothing.
He stepped out with his keys and his wallet, but no clear idea of what he was doing.
As he turned into the 7-Eleven lot, he saw Jill standing outside, near the trash bin by the door. She was emptying items into the trash.
She didn’t see him.
Or maybe she did.
By the time he parked and walked up, she was already back inside, behind the register, pretending to scroll through her phone.
Peter walked to the bin.
Right on top—clean, flat, almost placed there—was a receipt.
Not crumpled. Not stained.
Just sitting there.
He picked it up.
There was no store name. No timestamp. Just three typed lines:
Pass the coffee shop
Don’t stop
Check the bin
His breath went shallow.
He stepped inside.
Jill looked up. “Hey there.”
Peter didn’t respond. He held up the receipt.
“Why does this say what I just did?”
She blinked. “What?”
“You just threw this away.”
“I tossed a bunch of stuff. I don’t know what was in there.”
He watched her.
“This isn’t funny.”
“I’m not joking.”
“You were at the coffee shop earlier. With my wife.”
She gave the slightest nod. “We go to the same knitting group.”
Peter stared.
“Since when?”
“I don’t know. A while.”
“You don’t seem like the knitting type.”
She smiled. Not friendly. Just... polite. “That’s kind of rude.”
Peter swallowed. “You gave me that receipt.”
“I didn’t give you anything.”
“You’re messing with me. My wife tells you I’m coming. You print this stuff off to freak me out.”
She tilted her head, like she was trying to work out a puzzle that wasn’t worth her time.
“If you’re not buying anything, sir, I need to serve the next person.”
He looked around. No one else in the store.
But she was done talking.
Peter left.
Back in the car, door shut, AC on, he stared at the receipt again.
Pass the coffee shop. Don’t stop. Check the bin.
No time. No store. Just steps. Movements.
Not instructions.
Narration.