But the brown paper bag in her hand was warm.
Inside were leftovers from the diner where her mother worked the night shift—biscuits, eggs, sometimes bacon if the morning crowd had been slow.
They couldn’t really afford to give food away.
That was exactly why Jasmine’s mother kept telling her not to make it a habit.
But Jasmine never listened.
Because every morning she stopped at the same house.
The house leaned toward the street like it was tired of standing.
Peeling paint.
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