Michael told his driver to wait. Keeping a careful distance, he followed her.
She passed bright storefronts filled with light and laughter, crossed busy intersections, and moved through areas humming with life. Then she turned down narrower streets where the sidewalks were cracked and the streetlights flickered. The noise faded. The air felt heavier.
She stopped in front of a small, weather-beaten house at the edge of the neighborhood. A rusted gate leaned crookedly. Only one dim light glowed inside.
The girl knocked gently.
The door opened, and Michael’s breath caught.
Five children rushed toward her at once.
“Did you bring it, Lily?”
“Is there rice tonight?”
“Did they give you chicken?”
The girl—Lily—smiled and handed the box to the oldest boy. “For Mom,” she said.
Michael’s chest tightened.
In the corner of the room, lying on a thin mattress, was a frail woman coughing weakly into a cloth. Her face was pale, her movements slow. The children hovered around her carefully, as if one wrong move might cause her to disappear.
Lily knelt beside her mother, opened the box, and selected the softest pieces first. She placed them gently onto a chipped plate.