Instead, I looked up and saw concern on her face. Real concern. Not pity exactly. Something worse.
Attention.
I had not been looked at that way in years.
So I lied.
I told her I was fine.
She did not believe me.
She asked if I had eaten.
I said yes.
She looked at the vending machine dinner beside me and said, “That is not eating.”
That was the first time Evelyn bought me food.
A chicken salad sandwich, a bottle of water, and a lemon cake slice she claimed she had accidentally bought too much of.
I ate in my truck with the heater barely working while she sat beside me in the passenger seat, hands folded over her handbag, asking me small questions as if I were not a disaster in muddy boots.
My name.
Where I was from.
Whether I had family nearby.
Whether I had a safe place to sleep.
I lied about that too.
She listened quietly.
Then she said, “You remind me of my grandson.”
