Every visitor brings a hazard. Mrs. Larkin comes in with a handbag that smells faintly of mothballs and grievance; she leaves behind advice like used coupons—careful, bitter, indispensable. The brothers Morales conduct midnight trades in the frozen-food section, where frostbeards form on their jackets and the transaction code is a nod and an old song. Teenagers skateboard through the automatic doors, trading stares with the security camera that blinks like a tired overseer. And the rain, when it arrives, turns the linoleum into a glassy hazard course. Vaz mops in a ritualistic pattern: back to back, left to right, as if choreography could keep chaos at bay.