Michael Ferguson

Outside the grocery store, I was ambushed. A table. A banner. Two small girls in uniform, sashes covered in badges. Their commander stood behind them with her arms crossed, saying nothing. The taller one looked me in the eye and said, "Hi. Would you like to support Girl Scout Troop 3044?" I have studied negotiation my entire life. Nothing prepared me for a merchant four feet tall wearing a sash of prior conquests. I asked what the tribute funded. Camp, she said. Badges. She pointed at one and said, "I got this one for public speaking," which she was, at that exact moment, flawlessly doing. I intended to buy one box. To be polite. She said, "Most people do the bundle." She had offered me a dignified retreat that cost five times more. This is mastery. This child will own land. I bought twelve boxes. Her mother nodded once, like a general confirming the fall of a city. The smaller scout rang a small bell. Apparently there is a bell. Walking to my car, a stranger loading groceries saw my boxes and said, "They got you too, huh." Too. There is a brotherhood of the defeated in this parking lot. We recognize each other by our cargo. Then he lowered his voice and handed me doctrine: "Freeze the Thin Mints." I had known this man for nine seconds. In my land, secrets of this grade pass between families over generations. Here, they are given freely, between strangers, next to a cart return. I froze the Thin Mints. He was right. I think of him often. I do not know his name. The winter was long. Some weeks were the kind you survive one frozen cookie at a time, standing in the kitchen, without turning on the light. By February the box was empty, and so, roughly, was I. In March, walking to the store, I heard the bell. The table. The banner. The same scout, taller now, her sash one row of conquests longer. She saw me across the parking lot. She did not smile like a child. She smiled like a shopkeeper whose ship has come in. She reached under the table and lifted a bag that had been set aside, and the small one yelled, "TWELVE BOXES IS HERE!" That is my name now. I have been called many things. None were earned faster. She held out the bag. "We saved yours. Mom said you'd be back." They had held inventory for me. On faith. Based on one transaction, a year ago. In this country, a child looks a grown stranger in the eye, states her price, and expects the world to be good for it. And somehow, because she expects it, it is. I took out my wallet.