You’re already halfway down the steps when the boy finishes his sentence, and something in you pauses like a clock skipping a beat.
Food, not money. For a sister with a fever. The request is so specific it doesn’t sound rehearsed.
It sounds like hunger wearing a suit of bravery that’s two sizes too big.
You tighten your grip on the cane, annoyed at your own hesitation.
This is how people get in, you tell yourself, through pity, through stories.
You’ve built a life so sealed that even sympathy feels like a security risk.
But the little girl behind him coughs into her sleeve and your stomach turns, not with fear, with something closer to shame.
“Go away,” you say again, but your voice comes out less sharp this
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