It belonged to a young man, younger than Graham had been, in a parka with a broken zipper and a Sox cap. He looked tired in a way she recognized, the way her neighbors looked in the winters the mills were closing. He looked at the box. He looked at his watch. He looked like a man who had been to four stores already that morning and had money for exactly one toy.
Gina's hand was an inch from the box. She could have had it. She was closer. She was faster. She had always been faster.
She looked at the young man. Then she looked down at her son, who was watching her with his father's eyes.
She let go first.
She stepped back and lowered her hand, and smiled at the young man — her sweetest smile, the one that ought to be registered with the police — and said, "Go ahead. It's all yours."
He stared at her. Then he grabbed it, and said, "Thank you, ma'am, God bless you, thank you," and practically ran for the registers.
Sal tugged on her hand. "Mama. We lost."
"Did we?" said Gina.