Aisle seven grew forty feet between counts.

I run the night audit alone. My grandmother trained me on this same shift. The planogram has aisle seven at thirty-two feet — every inch logged.

Tonight I paced it past the cereal, past the rice, past where the shelf should end. Forty feet to the back wall.

The cold thickens around step thirty. The fluorescent hum drops a pitch. It smells like attic — dust and old wool.

There's a price gun on the floor at the new endcap. The label loaded inside reads seventy-nine cents. We round to the nearest dime now.

The cashier ID on the gun is 0042. That was hers. She retired in 1994.

Tell me what you'd have done.