[Previously FEATURED] Retail workers have the least chance of being haunted, hurt, or killed. At least, that's what three cashiers assume. When Temple, Marilyn, and Martine meet little Sienna, they find out how wrong they are about job security.
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Marilyn typed away on register two, giving her good reason to disregard Temple. Like the other employees, she disliked the girl. For weeks, Marilyn had suspected her of theft. The register totals were off at least once a month, but never by more than fifteen dollars.
Crumpled bills stuck out of Temple's back pocket like a bad joke. Marilyn started to question her when a customer approached.
"Can I get some balloons, please?" a young mother asked, a small dark-haired girl trailing behind her.
Head tilted upward, the girl allowed her mother to pull her forward as she played out a sort of silent protest.
A whining noise tickled Marilyn's ear, starting low and building up in a deafening arc. She grimaced and snatched out her earpiece, but the noise droned on, ceasing a moment later. She inspected the tech and rubbed her ear.
Temple kept the customer busy: "Yes ma'am. Which kind of balloons would you like?"
Before the woman responded, Marilyn interjected, "Give us a second, ma'am." In a tone meant only for Temple, she said, "See me in the office after your shift. For now, stay at the register. I'll call Martine for balloons." Next, she spoke into the tiny microphone clipped to her shirt, "Martine to the balloon counter, Martine."
Martine's response crackled through the radio, "On my way."
Temple took her time sauntering to the register. "Why can't I do it?"
Marilyn waved away the question, concentrating instead on the little girl, small chin jutted out. The only visible part of her face was a pointed nose and pink lips as she continued staring at the ceiling.
Unconcerned, the mother picked out balloon colors from nearby bins.
The child swung her arms, humming slightly.
Ah, so that was the noise I heard earlier. Marilyn relaxed, focused on the customer, who was grouping the uninflated latex into small piles on the counter.
Martine appeared from the front of aisle six, a bob of dark hair bouncing with her steps. She navigated rows of candy to join Marilyn, filling balloons as fast as her fingers could tie.
The girl's humming digressed to fervent whispers, and Marilyn frowned. Upon entering Good Time Party Emporium, children were entranced by the various assortments of toys and balloons. The girl was different. Toys and candy did not seem to entertain her, not like the ceiling. There was no way she was interested in the swirling pock marks and raised stucco.
Marilyn nudged Martine.
"What?" Martine asked, fingers busy tying a knot in a balloon.
"Look at that little girl," Marilyn said.
Martine snuck a glance. "Very cute. But what is she staring at?"
"Who knows."
Both women followed the child's glower, but there was nothing notable except the occasional block of florescent lighting.
The customer, finally noticing the oddity that was her child, asked, "What are you doing, honey?"
No more humming, or even whispers, but certainly the staring.
The woman smiled at Marilyn, as if to say what-can-you-do? Marilyn couldn't relate, being twenty-two and childless.
A whining keen sounded underneath the harsh aerosol whoosh of the helium tanks. She stopped inflating to listen. A balloon leak?
