Emily sat, hesitating like she might still be chased out. She kept her eyes on the floor, hands fidgeting in her lap.
Evans called over the waiter.
“Bring her what I’m having. And a warm glass of milk.”
The moment her food arrived, Emily dug in. She tried to eat politely, but hunger had its own urgency. Evans didn’t interrupt her. He simply watched, silent, with a distant look in his eyes.
When the plate was cleared, he finally asked, “Where’s your family?”
“My dad di:ed. Roofing job. Fell. Mom left two years ago. I was living with my grandma, but… she passed last week.” Her voice cracked, but she didn’t cry.
Evans’s face remained unreadable, but his fingers tightened slightly around the glass of water in front of him.
No one at the table — not Emily, not the staff, not the other guests — could’ve known that Richard Evans once lived a nearly identical story.
He wasn’t born rich. In fact, he’d slept in alleyways, sold soda cans for nickels, and gone to bed hungry so many nights, he’d lost count.
His mother died when he was eight. His father vanished not long after. He survived on Chicago’s streets — not far from where Emily now wandered. And years ago, he too had paused outside restaurants, wondering what it would be like to eat inside.
