She parked the stroller, sat down and noticed the plastic bag on the bench beside her. She looked around. The food court was packed. Whoever forgot the bag would probably be back soon.
She pulled a sausage roll from its paper sack. The boy opened and closed his little fists. “You want some?” she said.
She tore the roll in two with her fingers, sending pastry flakes tumbling onto the table. She squeezed ketchup onto the roll and handed half of it to the little boy. He sucked on it, his one tooth circling the meat inside. She used a napkin to gather the fallen pastry flakes towards the side of the table.
Again she looked at the bag.
It was plain white, no branding. The bag looked full, sharp corners stretched the plastic from underneath, suggesting something hard and rectangular inside. A shoebox?
It was lunchtime and the mall filled with workers from the surrounding office towers. People poured down the escalator. Lineups formed at the fast-food kiosks.
She leaned forward on her chair, straining to look inside the bag. A brown cardboard box was stuffed inside. Who forgets a pair of shoes?
The boy grinned, his cheeks pink and sticky with tomato sauce.
Should she tell someone? Who? What would she say?
She scanned the food court. A falafel shop. A juice bar. A Vietnamese noodle place. Teenagers with patchy beards.
Don’t be ridiculous.
A phone rang. Two people checked their pockets.
She cocked her head to examine the bag from underneath. Was it heavy? Did it leave a deeper impression on the vinyl bench than… what? A pair of shoes? A small vase? Why wasn’t the box wrapped?
A cloud dimmed the sun streaming through the skylight.
The boy dropped his roll. He peered over the restraining bar of his stroller and looked down at the shiny floor. He opened and closed his hands.
“You can’t have it now. It’s yucky.”
The boy cried.
There was an exit over there. But the stroller wouldn’t fit on the escalator. Where was the lift?
He probably needed changing anyway. And he could sleep in the car.