The shouting started by the bread aisle. An elderly man slammed his cane against the floor, and the sharp crack cut through the noise like a gunshot. A teenager froze mid-step. Everyone turned. My name’s George. Seventy-two. Vietnam veteran. Widower. Most days, I stay out of the way. Since Linda passed, the house has been too quiet. My life’s simple—canned soup, a loaf of bread, black coffee. Tuesdays, I make my trip to Food Lion. Same time. Same list. That day, the rain was coming down in sheet