“The teenaged girl was brutally axed to death by her grandmother.”

A cashier is scanning my groceries. I have headphones in. My favorite true crime podcast is playing. I read the cashier’s lips. She asks, “How are you today?” while the podcast host simultaneously says, “They found the girl’s body in the old lady’s basement.”

“I’m good, thanks, how are you?”

I put the divider between my groceries and the groceries belonging to the man behind me. I would hate to accidentally purchase his Vienna sausages, or worse—for him to get away with my tampons.

The podcast host explains that the teenager’s body was found decomposing in a Rubbermaid bin in her grandmother’s fruit cellar. Despite the rotting corpse, the grandmother continued to use the fruit cellar. Along with murder, the woman’s hobbies included canning. The body was found next to stacks of fruit preserves and pickled beets.

“Do you need bags?” the cashier asks.

“No, thank you, I brought my own.” I gesture to my tote bag.

The podcast host jokes, wondering if the grandmother ever considered pickling the dead body. I snort at the grotesque concept while the cashier kindly scans my boxed cake mix and Midol. Sometimes you have to joke about things like pickling murdered teenagers. It’s a coping mechanism. It takes the darkness out at the knees.