Milk

FICTION

I held an aged ten dollar bill between us. He looked nervously at the grocery store, teeming with shoppers. This was supposed to be good for him—independence—agency.

“Why do we need money for milk?” he asked with the haughty air of a grade-school philosopher.

“Because everything costs something, son,” I said.

“Everything?” he said.

“Everything.”

“We could just take the milk,” he said.

“Like stealing?”

“If that’s what you want to call it,” he said.

“It’s not what I call it, it’s what the dictionary calls it,” I said. I took a steadying breath, as that’s what I’d been told good fathers do. “Then you’d pay for it with time instead of money—time spent in jail. Get the milk?” I urged the greasy bill closer. He looked out the window.

“We could change that law,” he said.

“Then everyone would have to pay for the milk. Safety. Society. Stability. Milk,” I said. He seemed to be thinking about it. I lowered my outstretched hand, feeling tired and like a failure in more ways than one.

“We could burn it all …