He took the bundle with a slight nod, his fingers briefly showing from his sleeves. They were scarred and dark with grease.
“Your mother makes the best soup in the county,” he said, holding the warmth of the towel against his chest. “She always knows when the frost is coming.”
“You don’t know her,” I said, my voice sharp in the quiet alley.
Victor stared at me through the gap, his eyes dark under the brim of a frayed wool cap. He did not step back, and he did not apologize.
“I know she has a good heart,” he rasped.
I turned my back on him and walked back toward the kitchen light, my damp sneaker squeaking against the frozen grass.
Inside, the kitchen window had a thin layer of condensation clinging to the single-pane glass. The radiator beneath the sink gave a dull, metallic clank, but the room remained cold enough that our breath puffed in tiny white clouds.
Mother was setting two ceramic bowls on the table, each containing a pale, watery scoop of broth and three small slices of carrot.
“You gave him the drumstick, didn’t you?” I asked, sitting down without taking off my coat.
She did not answer immediately. She picked up a metal tablespoon and began stirring her broth, though there was nothing in it to stir.
“He eats better than I do, Mom,” I said, staring at my empty spoon.
Mother dropped her spoon into the sink with a loud, clattering clang that made me jump.
“He is not just some man,” she said, her chest rising and falling quickly. She rubbed her hands flat against her apron again, her face flushed from the stove.
“Then who is he?” I asked.
She turned her back to me, her fingers reaching up to touch the silver locket at her collar.
“He is a man who needs our help,” she said.
