Antônia took the left-side entrance, down the aisle where the speakers shouted about special deals saying Save money, live better. A new phone was thirty percent off. A vacuum cleaner, the kind that promised to be a dust shark, twenty-five percent off. There was also a regular vacuum, no flashy turbine. A memory card could hold over five hundred thousand photos.
Was that right? Five hundred thousand?
She tried to picture that many. Maybe her, her three kids, then if each of them had three more, and those three had three more—what would that make her, a great-grandmother?—then maybe, just maybe, five hundred thousand photos would fit.

Right by the entrance, they were still pushing an ab machine and a video game. She figured, someday, she might buy that for the grandson—he hadn’t even been born yet. The smell of fresh bread pulled her ahead, and she threw two corn cakes in the cart like the lady had asked, four packs of Oreos, other snacks, eight cereal bars. Oats, vanilla, rye. Still the breakfast section.

Then came the vegetables, the fruit, the canned stuff; meat, poultry, fish. Bathroom, hygiene, bed, table, bath; dinner treats, fine snacks, wine; home improvements, yard stuff, kids’ stuff, toys, babies, and again the breakfast aisle. Bread, coffee, cookies, juice, fruit, vegetables. Cart was already heavy. The list was wrinkled in her hand, she was late, still needed to stop at the bakery for herself before heading home, and the bus terminal would be packed—and it was a long walk, under sun or rain, whichever came.

Only twice—two times only—her boy had dropped her off. He was over sixteen now, drove his dad’s truck. Did it once ‘cause it was raining knives and he had nothing better to do. Not to the building, no. Probably didn’t even know the way back. The complex was huge—fifty apartments in the front, fifty in the back, ten floors up—so five hundred Antônias lived there, each in her little unit, saying good morning to the central patio like it was some kind of TV show. Smell of cooking, bath soap, fabric softener, all circling through the air every day of the week.

And it wasn’t just Antônia, no. There were crooks, saints, soap opera hunks, models, hookers, a little of everything. No one minding anyone’s business. That was the complex. Period.
Only when the water went out did people talk. Then it was a problem—five hundred families, or half-families, or what was left of families. Widows, jerks, everyone needed water.

Her legs were used to it. Toned by the daily walk from the terminal to the post to the house. The lady she worked for lived in one of those towers that, from far away, looked like peeled paint on the skyline. From there, she could see the block. The block had a name. It was famous. Antônia laughed, not ashamed. That’s where she lived. It had a name, but it was bad fame. And now with all this wandering through the store, she was gonna be even later and more tired. That morning, she hadn’t done a thing yet at the lady’s house. Brought only the grocery money—bring the receipt and the change, she always said. She kept it in her bra, annoyed. Couldn’t she just give a little treat in return? A piece of chocolate to split between her son and hers?

She passed the lunch section again. Again and again. Pots, pans, glasses, dishes. Like she could hear the pressure cooker hissing, cutlery clinking, soda spilling, then water running fresh over dishes. The ice cream, cold for them. Ahead, more registers, more aisles—prizes, promises, flyers, new stuff. That market asked her to marry it every day she showed up.

The full cart skidded across the floor. Aisle stretching too far. She felt dizzy—maybe vertigo, maybe just claustrophobia—and maybe it was just ‘cause it was early, and there wasn’t even anyone around to ask where the exit was?

She saw herself in one of those dome mirrors, above the shelves. Just her. Always thought those mirrors were linked straight to the police. Worse if you’re Black like her. Imagine. Only thought of her kids. How one day, her day away from the world, could mess everything up. Who’d get the baby from daycare? God, she loved that girl. That baby would study, had a future. Born in the city, not like her—born in the fields, daughter of a midwife. For her, moving from one place to another had always been harder. But that was life. What mattered was moving forward. She always said that. Her husband agreed. Oh God, her husband better not be late picking up the baby. She tried calling him, but her old phone had no signal left. She needed a new one.

The girl at the Tim store had promised her a discount. Even printed out the contract. You got free texts, bonus credit, earned points, swapped points. She almost said it was like talking for free Monday to Friday. Antônia laughed. Yeah right, girl.

Time was passing. No signal. No battery. Her legs ached. She was hungry. The lady must be losing her mind without lunch. She was making ox tongue today. That delicious smell of red-sauce meat would fill the house. Tss, tss, tss—pressure cooker hissing—and only Antônia knew how to clean that tongue right. The lady didn’t dare touch it. Got jealous even, the way her husband—the old man—praised Antônia for it.
Imagine. Antônia with the old man? Never. God forbid. She was fine with her husband. He came by motorcycle, and when they were home, he’d start right up with his hands on her. She was the one who’d say not now—usually after a fight. Always over jealousy. Imagine, that Indian-looking girl on the fifth floor with the long hair. Stuck up. Never showed up to barbecues. Probably a sex worker. Maybe not, but she definitely flirted—smiled too much at her man. She didn’t like that.

Antônia stopped and looked for a phone. A staff door. Someone to ask. Where’s the exit, God? Tired of pushing the damn cart. Maybe she should just leave it and keep looking for a way out. At least a payphone. Call the husband, tell him to get the baby. Let the lady know she was running late. That the tongue was probably thawed already in the sink, would be ready soon. Maybe a bit late. She could call the doctor too. Say she was late. The new market was just too big.

She opened a cookie, straight from the cart. The empty wrappers, the water bottle too—she’d pay, just scan it all. The cart was so heavy. The doctor said that might be the reason for her knee and back pain. She told him it was just bad posture. Didn’t say more. Imagine, complaining. Legs aching, and she wouldn’t even grab a balm—she’d have to pay. At home she’d soak them in salt water. My God, the baby. Her husband must’ve picked her up. Surely the daycare called.

She slumped in one of the aisles, where they had camping gear. She didn’t care. Not-paying-for-this. She should’ve left long ago. Lost in there. Found a blanket, some natural fiber thing, covered herself. Then the lights went out. She felt around for a flashlight. Found one. Batteries included. Even got the radio working. FM. Zezé’s song was playing. People calling in to complain about companies. She thought she might call in too. Absurd situation. She couldn’t believe it. She slept. No clock anywhere. She woke up over and over, startled, like she was home again. Day broke. She kept walking. Same thing every day. Hungry or not.

She never realized supermarkets had no windows. Just aisle after aisle. Only noticed now that she needed one to leave.

She picked up a camping stove. Tossed aside the lady’s list. Half the stuff cost more than her paycheck. Took the stove, the mat, water jugs, steak, fork, knife, plate, a warmer blanket, a thermos. Morning came—she had to brew coffee and think of a way out. Took a big sharp knife too, just in case. Couldn’t trust anyone anymore.

Every night she dreamed something crazier. That the lady had sent her there. With her daughter. The baby. Even on the fabric softener label—some pale white baby she’d never seen so white—reminded her of hers. She opened the cap just to smell it.
Yes. That smell. The baby’s blanket.
She cried. Softly.

Where was her husband? Wasn’t the police gonna look for her? That woman—that bitch—was probably gonna wait days before even saying something was wrong. Probably claim Antônia had run off with the money. Only after, maybe, she’d admit it was weird. Say maybe she was unhappy with her husband. And that’d be that. That’s how it went with new employers. No connection.

She had fixed a few problems before, just saying: You know I’m just a maid. Even when it hurt. Even when it nearly cost her the job. She’d complain later to her husband, tell the whole story like she was reliving it. Her husband, oh how she missed him.

She cried. Out of fear. Despair. Thought of setting a fire—rubbing alcohol, paint thinner, grill starter—but if it didn’t work? She’d suffocate. Die in there. Melted down in a sea of soap and tomato sauce and napkins and toothpaste and beach chairs.

She started eating two, three meals a day. Before the lights went out. Sometimes a snack. The rest of the time she slid that cart forward, pushing, skating across the floor as fast as she could. Looking for the back of that supermarket that had swallowed her. Ate the filet mignon. The ice cream. The wine. Even the champagne the lady saved for special occasions.

That had become her life. Surrounded by Omo packages. Sometimes resting in the fake garden display under a big white-lamp-lit gazebo. Then back to running. Sometimes she gave up. Camped there. Made the shelves her home.

She’d yell, trying to find someone. Then start again. Like a gypsy. Always moving forward. Gave up. Stayed.

She had a better mat now. A TV with no signal. Played DVDs. Learned how to hook it up. Got a lamp for bedtime. Read books—motivational, recipes, business, romance. My God, the baby. Her chest squeezed.

She held onto a little sandal she swore looked just like her girl’s. Held it tight. Her husband’s shirt too. Same one. Wiped her tears. This cursed plastic smell. What a nightmare. If only it were a dream. A beach, at least. The three of them.

She shivered alone. Maybe that other life was the dream. This was waking up. Or maybe just another dream. She didn’t know anymore.

She wished she’d dreamed she was rich, at least. Fewer bills, less work, more money for groceries. Between the two dreams, both were awful. But in the other one, she wasn’t alone.

She kept the fabric softener in the closest corner of the cart. Peeled off the label. Stuck on her daughter’s photo from her Velcro wallet. Held onto it like a lifeline.

She prayed. For what it was worth. Just keep the baby safe, Lord, while she was gone. Her husband had to manage. Shame hit her—what if he thought she’d left? She never meant it. Not seriously. Never without her girl. Not once, not ever, when she told him to go to hell, did she mean it. He had to know that. She was still there. Thinking of them.

One day, by the cookie aisle, she noticed—sick of cookies by now—the pack she’d picked on that first day was gone. The same one. From the middle shelf. Oreo. Then the almond chocolate one. Then triple chocolate mint.

They were missing. Same order. She’d been there.
If she went back… would she get out?

Then she saw it. A register.
Help. Oh my God. Help.
An open register.

“Ma’am, here,” the cashier said.

She let go of the cart. It slammed into a pyramid of canned goods.

She brought what she still held: the flashlight and the fabric softener.

“Twenty-nine ninety,” he said. “And you can win another if you fill out this form.”