Chapter 3: Meat and Mercy

She fumbled and trembled for a long time before finally offering up two cold dinner rolls.

Utterly disappointing.

"Come on, you’re holding out on me. I can smell that jerky from here."

I stuck out my long tongue, pointing at the beef jerky in the hands of a young maid and the driver nearby.

She glanced over, embarrassment flushing her face. Her thick lashes drooped, and her voice was as soft as a whisper:

"They barely let me in the house, let alone feed me. This is all I got—brought it from the group home."

My tongue hung in the air, awkward, before I reeled it in, embarrassed.

The Montgomerys were loaded; even the leftovers they tossed to the dogs were better than what she held.

Over a decade ago, I’d glimpsed that adopted daughter at a charity gala—adorned in pearls and diamonds, like a little starlet, not inferior even to the governor’s own kids.

Back then, when Mrs. Montgomery spoke of her lost daughter, she even wept in public.

"The comfort before my eyes is all that keeps me from falling apart every day."

But in just over ten years, she’d neglected and forgotten her own daughter to such a state.

For the unloved, even coming home was a struggle.

I lay atop the tree, sighing at the fickleness of the world, when Natalie softened her heart.

"Here you go."

She bit her lip, not meeting my eyes, her hand shaking as she held it out. She mustered her courage and asked the driver for half a chewed piece of jerky, holding it up, not daring to look at me:

"Stop crying."

Her voice, though barely audible, was so sincere it caught even the restless crows' attention. Sometimes you recognize a lifeline in the most meager offerings.

For a second, I almost remembered what hunger felt like. Almost.

"I’ve thought of a way for you."

I was stunned, only then noticing that my empty eye sockets were bleeding again.

"I didn’t—"

Smack—

A harsh reality always finds a way to interrupt hope.