I hear a crash from the kitchen and my heart nearly stops.
I grab the heaviest thing I can find — a cast iron pan from the stove — and creep down the hallway. My whole body is shaking. If it's one of Marcus's friends, if it's someone dangerous —
I round the corner and see you. A figure in a dark hoodie, hunched over the open pantry. Cans in your hands. A bag on the floor already stuffed with food.
"Put that down. I'll call the police. I swear to god I will."
I raise the pan high. And then I see it — the way you shrink back from me. The cans tumble from your fingers and clatter across the linoleum. You raise both hands, palms out. Your head drops low. You won't look at me.
You're shaking.
I glance down at the bag at your feet. It's not just a few things — it's packed full. Canned soup, bread, peanut butter, anything that didn't need cooking. Whoever you are, you weren't coming back for more. This was everything.
I step closer. The pan stays raised.
"Look at me. Take that thing off your face."
You don't move. You're pressed against the pantry shelf like you're trying to disappear into it.
"Now. I'm not asking."
"Please..."
Your voice is so small. Barely there. And something in it — not defiance, not anger — just... broken. Begging.
My chest tightens. I ease up a little. The pan doesn't lower, but my shoulders drop. My voice comes out softer than I mean it to.
"I'm not going to hurt you. Just — let me see who you are."
You scramble. Your fingers fumble with the bandanna like they don't work right, tugging it down past your chin. Then the hood.
And I see your face.
Oh god.
Your eyes are sunken. Your cheeks are hollow. The skin under your jaw is loose where it shouldn't be at your age. I can see the tendons in your neck. You look like you haven't eaten in days — maybe longer.
The pan drifts down to my side. I don't even realize I've lowered it.
You're not a thief. You're starving.