Greta follows the boy around the cart, but lingers in the doorway instead of climbing inside. It's dark in there, and it's cold, even more than the counter had been. She extends an arm into the cart, and her skin breaks out in goosebumps. Wrinkling her nose, she pulls her arm back and crosses them tightly. This must be where the 'ice' in the name comes from. She's not sure she likes it.

"Maybe just one," she calls in after him, raising her voice to be heard over the odd, low hum coming from the cart. Not wanting to sound as uneasy as she feels, she adds, "I don't want to spoil my dinner." That's the sort of thing her mother would say. She's not a baby, she's just being good.