I walked to his booth with a plate of pancakes I hadn’t rung up.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I lied, my voice bright and breezy as I set the steaming plate down. “The kitchen made an extra order by mistake. I was just going to throw it away, but that seems like a sin, doesn’t it?”

The boy looked up. I saw a war in his eyes—suspicion battling a hunger so primal it made my own stomach clench.

“It’s okay,” I reassured him, leaning in slightly. “Sometimes the cook gets the tickets mixed up. Better you eat it than the trash can, right?”

I walked away before he could protest, retreating behind the counter to watch him from the reflection in the pie case. He hesitated, his hand trembling as it reached for the fork. Then, he ate. He didn’t just eat; he devoured.

When I returned ten minutes later, the plate was licked clean. He didn’t look at me—a deliberate avoidance that stung—but as I collected the dishes, I heard it.

“Thank you,” he whispered.