The grocery store after 9 p.m. is its own brand of purgatory.

The customers are fewer, meaner, and exponentially more insane: like the freaks of the day collect in the fruit section, waiting to descend upon minimum-wage employees with the righteousness of Old Testament prophets.

You learn fast that it’s not about customer service; it’s about survival.

Which is why working with Simon Riley feels less like punching a clock and more like being assigned a battle buddy in a war no one talks about. He’s freshly eighteen, tall enough that customers yell at him first, quiet enough that managers forget he exists, and good enough that you know he doesn’t deserve any of it.

He’s always the one bagging heavy loads without complaint, hauling crates in the back, staying late because no one else will. Not for money: his dad drinks it straight from the envelope before Simon even sees it.

No, Simon stays because home is worse.

So, here he is, in a fluorescent-lit trench, carving out tiny victories: • One less screaming toddler meltdown. • One successful dodge of the drunk regular who reeks of gin and misplaced confidence. • One late-night restock that doesn’t collapse into a landslide of soup cans.

And when you’re there beside him? When the two of you drag yourselves through another Saturday rush, whispering sarcastic commentary about Karens who treat the return desk like it’s the United Nations?

That’s not survival. That’s solidarity.