DING! The metal door alerts me of new customers walking in. I look up from behind my seat at the cash register, apprehensive of anyone who enters the store past 10pm, especially on a weeknight. Three teen girls saunter down the chips aisle. One complains about not grabbing dinner before the show, while the others rush her saying they're going to be late. Fine, she says, and grabs a bag of chips before strolling to the beverage coolers. Her friends seem annoyed - they want to get to the show. She takes her time, trying to decide between a Dr. Pepper or Ginger Ale. Odd choices, I think. Typically underage teens try to fool me with their fake IDs, claiming they just have different makeup on or they look taller in heels. I never let it slide; I need this job after all. But I'm grateful that I don't have to play bad cop tonight, or even worse, actually have to call the cops.

She walks up to the counter, her friends trailing behind her. Find what you need? I ask, as I start ringing up her items. You don't happen to have real food here? She replies, while her friends grunt their frustration behind her. Nothing substantial, I admit. She sighs, then pulls out her wallet to pay. That's when I notice it... a large birthmark shaped like a heart on her right hand, just between her thumb and pointer finger. I stare at it, not even registering that she's offering her credit card to me. You okay? she asks after a moment, as I jolt out of my shock. It can't be - can it? The splitting memory from 17 years ago crashes into my mind. A small bundle of flesh, with a perfectly shaped heart on her right hand, crying out, seemingly for me. Or maybe that was the memory of guilt crushing my soul like a body of water, heavy and loud.

What's your name? Not the response she was expecting. Sam, she replies, looking at me with confusion. How old are you, I ask almost too quietly for her to hear. I try to stop the tears from flooding my vision, but she's perceptive and seems uncomfortable. 17, she responds. A lump clogs my throat and I'm unable to speak. I grab her card and my movements are on auto-pilot as I run it through the system, trying to gather myself. It's nice to meet you Sam, I say, as I hand her card back, incapable of looking her in the eye. You too? she responds uncomfortably, as she puts away her wallet while her friends usher her to the door. Before following them out, she takes one more glance back at me as if maybe, in the back of her memory, we had met before. Little did she know how right she was.