The bell above the supermarket door jingled as Clara pushed her way inside, her two kids in tow. The air smelled of fresh bread and coffee, mingling with the faint tang of vinegar from the pickle barrels near the counter. It was cooler in here than out on the sunbaked street, and Clara relished the brief respite from summer’s heat.

Shelves stretched before her, neatly stacked with tin cans boasting brightly colored labels—corn, peaches, Spam—all promising convenience. A boy in a white apron swept the floor, nodding politely as they passed. Behind the counter, Mr. Peterson was slicing ham, his hands deft as he chatted with Mrs. Davis about her garden.

Clara’s little one tugged her hand, pointing to the candy display. A penny bought a handful of gumdrops, their sugary sheen irresistible.

By the time they left, the brown paper bag under her arm was filled with simple staples—flour, sugar, coffee—but it felt like abundance. Life might be hard, but the little routines carried her through.