The moment I stepped out of the exam site, Mom rushed over. Her apron was still streaked with dust from sweeping.
She pulled a lunch container from inside her jacket, carefully wiped the chopsticks, and held it out to me. "Sweetheart, I made you chicken soup. Exams drain the brain—you need to replenish."
I didn't take it.
Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Rachel Monroe's camera swinging toward us.
I looked down at the soup—golden, glistening, with a few strands of greens floating on top.
Aunt Naomi Dickerson laughed and nudged my shoulder. "Go on, eat! Your mom was up before dawn making this. Didn't even take a sip for herself." She turned to play to the crowd. "Everyone on this block knows—no mother loves her daughter more than yours does."
Mom smiled awkwardly at the camera. "Oh, don't make a fuss. If she likes it, that's all that matters. It's just what parents do."
I glanced at Rachel, who had edged closer. Then, carefully, I took the container—and pulled out a battered tin box hidden beneath the soup.
Inside, three neat rows of vitamins. The wrappers had a cheap, waxy sheen. Powder residue clung to the edges.
I stared at it for a long moment.