The automatic door hissed open. A pallet of canned beans rumbled past. And Oliver, no bigger than a dust bunny, slipped inside. To a kitten, a latenight supermarket is not a store. It is a universe.
Oliver froze. A pair of worn sneakers stood two yards away. He tilted his head up—past baggy jeans, past a wrinkled blue polo shirt with a name tag that read “Darius”—to a tired, kind face with glasses slipping down a freckled nose. kitten latenight supermarket
By J. H. Emerson