“I believe this should pay for it,” she stated. “I tallied it up twice.”
For a moment, I merely gazed at the pouch. After that, I looked back toward the cooking area, illuminated only by the open fridge.
There was practically zero food inside the cooler — merely some drinks and a tiny pharmacy sack.
That was the exact moment I understood the situation, and the reason everything felt so incorrect.
This meal was not a luxury.
It served as the single warm dish she could obtain without standing by an oven she likely lacked the energy to operate, attempting to create a meal from the emptiness in her cooler.
“Do not stress over it.” I bent down to slide the pouch of money back in her direction. “The bill is already handled.”
She wrinkled her forehead. “I refuse to let you get penalized.”
I possess zero clue why I uttered my next words. Perhaps because fabricating a story seemed less painful than observing her hand me copper pieces.
“It is fine, honestly. I am the owner,” I replied.
