From alley to alley, from curb to curb, Rebecca had scanned the ground with the practiced eye of someone who knew how to search without hope. Bottles, cans, folded newspapers left behind by hurried mornings had all gone into a worn backpack. Every item was weighed against the distance still left to walk. Every coin counted twice in her mind before she allowed herself to believe it existed.
Today was Jonah’s birthday. Paige leaned toward her mother, her voice low and uncertain, as though hunger itself might be offended if spoken too loudly.
“Mom,” she murmured, “my stomach hurts.”
Jonah glanced at the glowing menu board, its photos bright and impossible, then back at his mother. He hesitated before speaking, choosing his words with the same caution he used when crossing busy streets.
“Mom,” he said softly, “since it is my birthday, could we stay here for a little while. We do not even have to eat much.”
Rebecca reached into her pocket and opened her hand slowly, as though moving too fast might make the contents disappear. A crumpled bill, a handful of coins, and nothing more. Just over ten dollars. That was the entire day laid bare in her palm.
She closed her fingers and nodded.