She was maybe seven, small enough that the handle of the door sat near her shoulder, and she looked like she had walked a long way on feet that were never meant to carry someone through cold pavement and gravel, because her soles were dirty, her toes were nicked in a dozen tiny places, and her clothes hung on her like they belonged to a different kid with a different life.
But it was her face that stopped him, her cheeks wet with tears that made clean streaks through the grime, her eyes wide in a way that did not match her age, and her arms wrapped around a brown paper bag held tight against her chest as though she believed her grip alone could keep something from slipping away.
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