She always did.
The boys were already awake. One of them tall for his age with sharp eyes that measured danger watched her carefully. Another coughed, his chest rattling in a way that made her stomach tighten. The smallest boy sat apart, knees pulled to his chest, his gaze fixed on the ground like eye contact itself was risky.
Kadiatu stopped.
She didn’t announce herself. She never did.
She crouched slowly, keeping her movements open, calm, and placed the bread on a piece of clean paper between them.
“For sharing,” she said.
They stared. Hunger battled suspicion. Finally, the tall boy broke the loaf, carefully counting pieces with the seriousness of an adult dividing wages.
No one spoke.
Kadiatu stood and walked away before gratitude could embarrass them.
She told herself it would end there.
But the city has a way of testing your lies.
Two days later she saw them again, this time running.
A shopkeeper was shouting. A stone flew past, missing one boy’s head by inches. People joined the chase not to ask questions, but because crowds enjoy a villain.
“They steal!” the accusation came easily, like a familiar prayer.
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