God, she's going to kill me with her innocence.
"Yes, baby. But you still shouldn't have come out here." I soften my tone, crouching down to her level. "I was scared when I couldn't find you. You have to tell me when you go somewhere."
"Sorry, Mama."
I pull her into a hug, breathing in the smell of her hair, feeling my heart rate slowly return to normal. When I look up, Lupo, if that's his name, is still watching us. There's something in his expression that makes my heart squeeze tight. Longing, maybe. Or sadness.
Does he have a family somewhere? Children? Are they wondering where he is?
"Mama," Elena says against my shoulder. "Lupo likes red pasta."
I pull back slightly. "What?"
"Red pasta. With tomato sauce. He remembered!" She sounds delighted. "Can we make red pasta for dinner?"
My smile drops remembering our grocery money. I glance at Lupo, then back at Elena. "Baby, we don't have tomatoes right now."
"We can buy some!"
"We need to make our food last, remember?" I try to keep my voice light, but I can feel Lupo's gaze on me. "We'll have pasta with butter tonight. You like that."
"But Lupo likes red—"
"Elena." I stand up, taking her hand. "We'll talk about it later. Come on. Let's go back to the house."
"But—"
"Now, Elena."
She huffs but lets me lead her toward the door. I feel the weight of Lupo's stare on my back. He's not stupid. He heard everything. He knows exactly how tight things are with money.
"Isabella."
I stop, not turning around.
"You've been feeding me," he says quietly. "Your food."
"You need to eat. You're healing."
"So do you. And your daughter."
I close my eyes briefly. "We're fine."
"You're not fine." There's something in his voice, not accusation, just certainty. "You're choosing between feeding me and feeding yourselves."
"It's temporary. You'll be gone soon."
"Will I?"
The question hangs in the air. Because he's right. Where is he going to go? He doesn't know who he is. He has no money, no identification, no one to call. And I can't exactly drop him at a hospital or police station.
I'm stuck with him. And he knows it.
"We'll manage," I say finally, pulling Elena through the door.
Behind me, I hear him say, "Thank you."
I don't respond. Just take my daughter back to the house and try not to think about how much bread is left in the pantry.
