I tried to ignore him, shifting the trash bag in my hand and turning toward the door.
But as I started to walk away, he stirred. Slowly, he raised his head, and our eyes met. His eyes weren’t dull or lifeless like I expected. They burned with something… desperation, maybe, or pain. Or was it hope?
“Ma’am,” he croaked, his voice rough as gravel, “I don’t mean to bother you, but if you’ve got anything… anything at all…”
I froze, my stomach twisting.
Every instinct told me to keep walking, to pretend I hadn’t heard him. But guilt seeped in. I dug a twenty out of my pocket and held it out.
“Get something warm to eat,” I said, my voice firmer than I felt.
Voir la suite sur la page suivante:
