One
Chef Boyardee is smiling at me.
Put me in your pocket and walk out the door,his voice whispers in my ear—it’s louder than the ringing I’ve been hearing the last day or so.Then find a quiet place to smash me open with a rock and use your fingers to shovel this delicious and one-hundred-percent organic Beefaroni into your mouth until that burning pit in your stomach is plugged and you aren’t going to die.
Because Iwilldie.
It’s been almost three days since I’ve eaten, and I walked into the corner store without even trying to not look homeless, against my better judgment.
Judgment. Like that even exists anymore. I’ve been bathing in Starbucks bathroom sinks for eight months. What judgment could I possibly have left?
The cashier has been watching me with his noodle eyes since I walked in the door. Delicious noodle eyes.
I turn to glance at him over my shoulder and there he is. Still watching.
Not with eyes made of noodles—brains struggle when starved—but with narrowed, dark eyes like a shark. I haven’t taken the Beefaroni yet, which is why he’slettingme sit here staring at the can.
The can that’s absolutely not organic. It also doesn’t need to be bashed open with a rock because it’s a pull tab, but my nutrition-deprived brain doesn’t care about continuity.
It only cares that I get that Beefaroni into my stomach right now.
I can still feel the eyes of the cashier on my back. He’s a white guy in his forties. It’s probably his store, which is why he’s staring so intently at someone who’s attempting to cut into his profit margin.
Part of me wants to walk right up to him, pull the tab off, and shove as much food into my mouth as I can. To see if he even cares. Maybe he’d pity me and let me go.
But that’s where I am right now. So desperate for food I’m willing to look like an absolute lunatic to get something in my stomach.
As if egging me on, my stomach rumbles. But not a normal rumble, because now the cramps that paralyzed me yesterday are back. I put the can down and brace myself against the metal shelf, waiting for the wave of pain to pass. Three days without food has been my limit since I left home eight months ago.
The door chime sounds, announcing more of an audience coming to see me looking desperate. I ignore it as the cramps slowly fade.
Then I take a deep breath and pick the can back up. I need this. And I don’t care if the shop clerk is watching me; what’s he going to do? Chase me down the street?
But he’s talking to whoever came in. If they went right over to him, it was probably to buy cigarettes or vapes behind the counter. I can’t hear what they’re talking about, but the clerk is distracted enough.
So I slip the can into my pocket. I reach up and pull the other cans on the shelf forward so it doesn’t look like one was taken.
Then I turn toward the front of the store, ready to make a quick, quiet exit.
Instead I stop in my tracks. Because there’s a cop standing right at the end of the aisle, staring at me as though he’s disappointed. My eyes flit over to the counter, where another cop is talking to the clerk, but they’re both looking at me.
I’m so stupid.
I was so distracted by starvation, cramps, and overall desperation that I didn’t even think to look for cops. Something I’ve been so good about.
And now, because of one little mistake, they’re going to arrest me and send me back to my parents.
“I’ll put it back,” I say.
But the cop—a middle-aged white guy with a mustache—just says, “Wouldn’t matter if you did.”
“Please. I was hungry and didn’t have any money.”
His eyebrows drop as he sizes me up. “How old are you?”
Shit.
“Eighteen,” I lie. What’s another year and ten months?
