The parking lot was busier than she would’ve expected for a Wednesday morning, but then again she supposed a lot of army personnel didn’t work nine to five so the normal rules didn’t apply. The dashboard clock informed her she’d wasted seven whole minutes sitting in the Malibu, fretting about going inside. She huffed in self-disgust. “It’s just a freaking grocery store. Now get out of this damn car and do this,” she coached under her breath, releasing her seat belt. She reached for the hessian tote she’d stashed on the passenger seat, checked to see if any of the entering or exiting patrons had brought their own bags, then decided to leave hers in the car. Lord knew they’d already smell the civilian on her—she didn’t need to raise more hackles with her hippie grocery bag. “It’s exactly like any other grocery store in America, except there’s no sales tax and it’s packed with grunts every payday.
