Eva tore the taffy in two. The snap echoed like a starting pistol.
Eva Perez ran the cash register like a drum kit— cha-ching, tap, tap, slide —each transaction a rhythm she’d learned from her abuela’s bodega. She knew where the saccharine hid: in the false-bottom boxes of chocolate, in the sticky fingerprints left on the glass counter. eva perez candy scott
“Partners?” Candy asked.