“You can’t buy anything with that.”
“I was hoping for one can of stew.”
He exhaled.
Not cruelly.
But impatiently.
“There’s a community center three blocks east.”
“I know.”
“They serve lunch.”
“It closed early today.”
He glanced around.
I could see the conflict in his face.
Not compassion.
Reputation.
Customers were watching.
“Sir, please.”
I looked at him.
“Do you have leftover food?”
His jaw tightened.
“We can’t hand out expired products.”
“Something not expired.”
“That’s not how this works.”
No.
Apparently it wasn’t.
I turned toward the exit.
I remember thinking the experiment had been a mistake.
Not because no one had given me food.
Because I had reduced kindness to a public challenge and found mostly discomfort.
Maybe that was unfair.
People had their own lives.
Their own fears.
Their own rules.
Maybe Lorna would have told me I had become self-righteous with age.
That thought almost made me smile.
Then someone grabbed the sleeve of my coat.
Hard enough that I nearly lost balance.
“Sir?”
The voice was small.
Young.
I turned.
And what I saw nearly knocked me to my knees.
A girl stood there.
Maybe eleven.
Thin.
Brown hair pulled into a loose braid.
