Afterwards, I would stroll to the cafeteria and buy whatever I wanted, pizza dripping with cheese, fries still hot, desserts I barely touched. I paid without checking the balance. I never thought twice.
I told myself it was harmless fun.
That illusion shattered on a gray Tuesday in early winter.
The sky hung low and heavy, and the wind cut through the courtyard with an edge that made everyone huddle into their coats. When I spotted Mateo, something looked different. The paper bag in his hands was smaller than usual, folded more tightly, as if there was less to protect inside.
I smirked and stepped closer.
“Looks like the menu is shrinking,” I said. “What happened, Mateo. Did the pantry finally give up.”
He surprised me by reaching for the bag as I grabbed it.
“Please, Ryan,” he said quietly, his voice trembling despite his effort to control it. “Just not today.”
That single sentence stirred something cruel in me. The plea felt like power sliding into my hands.
I laughed and lifted the bag higher, then shook it upside down.
Nothing fell out at first. Then a small piece of hard bread dropped onto the concrete, followed by a folded scrap of paper.
I laughed louder than before.