Don't Leave Me by James Scott Bell

Stan said, holding out a flyer.
    The man did not smile. He walked by Stan without saying anything.
    “Have a nice day,” Stan said, and meant it. He wanted everyone to have nice days, because they should. If people had nice days they were more likely to be nicer to other people. If you had bad days, you were meaner. Stan had figured all this out by himself and who needed fancy psychology? People were pretty simple when you got right down to it.
    He wanted Chuck to have good days for the rest of his life, because he deserved it. Chuck was the best person in the whole world. He was better than the President of the United States even. If he wasn’t the best person in the whole world, he was the best big brother.
    Stan smiled at the old man who came in with a cane. It was Mr. Manchester. He was always nice, Mr. Manchester was. He might have been the best old man in the whole world.
    “How are you, Stan?”
    “Fine, thank you, Mr. Manchester,” Stan said. “Granny Smith apples, fifty-nine cents a pound.” Mr. Manchester liked apples. “And Angel Soft bath tissue, five-ninety-nine.”
    “You mean toilet paper, don’t you?” Mr. Manchester said, giving Stan a wink.
    Stan laughed. “You’re not gonna trick me, Mr. Manchester.”
    “Back in the day, when men were men, it was called toilet paper. We liked it rough, too. With wood chips in it.”
    Stan didn’t know what to make of that, but he liked Mr. Manchester because he always joked with him. Stan gave him a flyer.
    And that’s when he noticed the man by the tomato paste. He was standing at the mouth of the aisle, like he was hiding almost. But he wasn’t hiding. He was looking right at Stan. Right into his eyes. At least he thought so. He had sunglasses on. In the store. Stan didn’t like that. He didn’t like that one bit. It wasn’t friendly.
    People sometimes looked at him strangely when they heard him talk. He knew he talked funny, kind of from the nose, and it was because of his brain.
    But this wasn’t that kind of look. Not a funny look. It was a mean look. He wasn’t very tall, this guy, and he looked younger than Stan. Older than a teenager, but not by much.
    “Hey Stan.”
    Stan jerked around, as startled as if someone had popped a balloon behind him. It was Mr. Cambry. He was pointing at something. Stan looked and saw two women, maybe a mother and daughter, backs to him, walking away.
    He’d missed them.
    He hated that!
    He started to follow them. Mr. Cambry caught his arm. “It’s okay, Stan.”
    “But they won’t know—”
    “We’ll let them be this time,” he said. “You’re doing a bang up job.”
    “I am?”
    Stan looked over Mr. Cambry’s shoulder, toward the tomato paste.
    The mean looking man was gone.
    For some reason that made Stan feel like the man was sneaking around. Like a spy. Like in the CIA. Once, when he was eleven, Stan told Chuck he wanted to go into the CIA. He wanted to be a spy. He thought that would be cool. He thought he could use his brain to remember things. Like secret maps and things. But he found out it was too hard to get into the CIA, especially for somebody like him. But he would have been a good spy.
    “Just wanted you to know that,” Mr. Cambry said, and walked on toward the deli section. A bang up job he’d said. Stan wasn’t a spy, but he was going to be the best on door there ever was at Ralphs Fresh Fare.
    But he was spooked now. Even if that mean guy wasn’t really a mean guy, there were lots of mean guys out there, and one of them had a knife and didn’t like Chuck.
    If Stan ever saw that man again he’d want to help Chuck. But he’d have to be brave to do that.
    He wondered if he could be.

Chapter 15

    Wendy Tower’s apartment was warm and filled with the smells of sea and spices. As she attended to final touches in the kitchen, Chuck and Stan sat in the living room. Stan had a smile on his face, a Cupid grin. With his eyes Chuck warned Stan not to say anything or else.
    Stan’s