She waited until 11:40, when the house was finally quiet, and laid a paper towel across the quartz so the foils would not pick up hairline scratches. Three hundred eighty-nine dollars, thirty-six packs, opened in rows. Nothing, nothing, nothing, and then pack twenty-nine gave up the rainbow one, the one that covers the box outright, assuming a person ever sold it, which this person would not.

She looked at it upstairs under the reading lamp for a while with the door mostly closed. Afterward she carried the wrappers out to the recycling bin at the side of the house so the kitchen trash would look ordinary in the morning. Then she sat back down with her phone. The shop had two left. She asked them to hold one.