Her coat was too big. Her hair was pulled back in a messy knot. One cheek had faint yellow bruising under makeup that did not quite hide it.
The boy beside her was maybe six.
Thin wrists.
Dirty sneakers.
Eyes too old for his face.
Betty stepped toward them with a tired kindness in her voice.
“Sweetheart, you can sit, but you gotta order something.”
“I know,” the woman said quickly. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to cause trouble. We just need to get warm for a minute.”
The boy stared at the food on the tables like looking too long might be stealing.
A man at the counter muttered, “There’s a shelter downtown.”
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