If Mrs. Goldstein had wanted the last salmon at Fishel’s Fish Market she should have spoken up and claimed it. Instead, she bit her fingernail with indecisive vigor and cautiously adumbrated a years worth of dinner meals. The salmon wouldn’t stay fresh forever. It’s watery, bulging eyes would turn dry and sunken. It’s wet and shiny body would soon wrinkle and become dull.

Mr. Fishel rocked back and forth on his heels and wrung his hands together, one, two, three times. With each tick of the clock on the wall his smile stretched thin, like soup made to accommodate company.