She gently shook her head.
“Keep it,” she said, smiling.
“Today’s meal is my treat.”
I looked past her, to the wall.
Under the brass plaque, beside my mother’s photograph, a small frame hung, with four bills pressed behind glass, the same crumpled dollars I had left on the first Thursday.
She had put them there herself.
Beneath them, in her handwriting, a single line.
THE MAN WHO WAS HUNGRY FIRST.
I ate every bite.
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