Give Me a Sign(63)

We move swiftly. “I’ll find the cookies,” I sign.

Isaac nods, turning into the next aisle, on the hunt for his Fruit Roll-Ups.

Meanwhile, there are way too many kinds of Oreos for me to choose from. Five shelves of them, to be exact. I’m debating trying something other than the classic Double Stuf when I sense someone else standing near me. I turn and see a man moving suspiciously slowly. There’s no strolling around at this hour. It’s the time of day for quick in-and-out purchases. But instead, he walks up to me.

I snatch the bag of Oreos directly in front of me, without confirming what kind they are, and walk to the end of the aisle, but the man takes a few more steps and blocks me. “Do you ——？” he says.

I can’t tell what else he’s saying. Every polite societal instinct in me wants to lean forward, shake my head, apologize, and ask him to repeat. But I don’t owe this strange man any of my time. He takes another step, backing me into the shelf. I shake my head.

He mutters something else. When I shake my head again, he gets louder but not any clearer, until I recognize the familiar phrase on his lips. “What, are you deaf or something?”

“Enough, I can’t hear you,” I sign.

At first, he leans back, startled. I briefly consider how Mackenzie told me she fakes being deaf to get creepy guys to leave her alone—but then the man in front of me curls up his lips into a narrow, unsettling grin, stepping even closer. I can smell the alcohol on his breath.

I push past the man and run to the end of the row, where I find Isaac rounding the corner. Isaac immediately takes stock of the situation and stands still, jaw clenched and eyes narrowed, looking as intimidating as he possibly can while holding four boxes of Fruit Roll-Ups.

Isaac wraps his arm around me, and the man backs off and scurries out of the aisle.

“Are you okay?” Isaac searches the emotions on my face.

“Let’s go.” I look down at the Oreos in my hands and discover they’re Birthday Cake. “Oh wait, ew.”

Isaac nods in agreement, holding my hand as we walk back to the Oreos. “My favorite is M-i-n-t,” he says, as I’m already reaching for that very flavor.

“Same!” I’m relieved to be far away from that drunk man and back at Isaac’s side.

We hustle to get out of the store and back to camp. Unfortunately, three of the four self-checkout lanes are closed, and there’s a line for the only available one, with none other than that creepy guy at the end of it.

“This one.” I point to the regular lane, where an old woman behind the counter hands a customer their receipt. There’s no line.

Isaac winces and tenses up, bobbling his head indecisively. But when he notices the drunk guy in the self-checkout line, he leads the way to the cashier.

After putting our snacks down on the belt, I unzip my backpack to find my wallet, but Isaac nods that he’ll get it. The lady quickly bags the items on the circle platform beside her and spins it around for us to grab our stuff on our way out.

Isaac goes to stick his card in the chip reader, but half of the machine is covered in duct tape, and a sign indicates to swipe instead. I wrap my hands around his left arm, leaning into him as a way of saying thanks. I love the smell of campfire smoke on his clothes. If we hurry, maybe we can get back in time to cuddle around the flames.

After Isaac puts his card away, I notice that the lady behind the register is saying something. Isaac looks at me, but I don’t catch what she says, either. He reaches for his phone, probably to use the Live Transcribe app. But she must’ve been asking if we needed the receipt, so I go ahead and respond, “No, thanks.”

Outside the store, I pause to dig out my keys while Isaac takes a few steps with our bags, looking for the car. I’m about to hold his hand when I realize someone behind me is yelling.

I cringe. Is it that guy?

But it isn’t. It’s some other man, dressed in all black, who runs past me and straight at Isaac. “Hey!” I shout at the man while lunging forward to alert Isaac—but the man beats me to it.

He grabs onto Isaac’s shoulder and tries to spin him around. Isaac glances back—first, at the man holding onto his shoulder and shouting in his face, then at my petrified stare. In the next instant, Isaac throws his elbow back, knocking the man in the nose.

It’s only as the man stumbles back, raising a hand to his bleeding nose, that I realize there’s a patch on his chest.

On his uniform.

Oh no. He’s a security guard.

The guard curses loudly. Isaac tries to step toward me, but the man grabs him by the shirt. The guard hasn’t tried to identify himself, and Isaac must not have noticed the patch, since this guy grabbed him from behind and closed in too fast this time. The two grapple with each other on the sidewalk. Isaac’s shock is now pure anger as he drops the two bags full of snacks. They fall to the ground, boxes of Fruit Roll-Ups spilling out.

“Stop!” I realize I signed the word, slamming my right hand perpendicular onto my left palm.

Isaac attempts a punch. The guard swerves out of the way to land one of his own. Isaac raises a hand to clutch his eye. As he does, the guard sticks out a leg to trip Isaac to the ground. Isaac falls, sprawling onto the concrete, scraping his cheek and palms against the curb.

The flashing lights arrive then. And I find the strength to step in.

“Stop it!” I yell at the guard. “You hurt him. Stop it!” The automatic doors keep opening and closing behind me. I’m planted in the sensor’s range. “Get away from him!”