The till I skimmed once.

I took a summer job on the Isle of Wight working the cash at a harbour café. It felt harmless at first a coin here, a note there small adjustments that no one seemed to notice. The machine was old and noisy, and I kept a quiet tally in my head as the day went on. By the end of a shift I'd slip the difference into my pocket and tell myself I'd pay it back when I was better off. The job only lasted the school holidays, and when I left, so did the habit. No confrontation ever came. No accusation either. Just warm evenings, the smell of chips and salt, and the knowledge that I'd funded my summer by shaving it off stranger's lunches. I've never done it since. I still feel it when I hear a till ring.