Just as Adrian wondered if he’d made a mistake bringing his son into this experiment, a pair of worn sneakers stopped in front of them.
“Are you two hungry?”
Adrian looked up.
A young woman stood there, maybe twenty-five. She wore a blue cleaning uniform with the logo of a hotel embroidered over the pocket.
Her hair was tied back loosely. She looked exhausted, like someone who had already lived a full day before noon. But her eyes—her eyes were gentle.
She didn’t just toss money. She didn’t just stare.
She knelt down so she was level with them, not caring that her uniform brushed against the dusty sidewalk.
“Wait a second,” she said softly.
She opened a small, worn purse and carefully counted what was inside: crumpled bills, loose coins.
She whispered to herself as she counted. “One hundred… two… two fifty… two seventy…”
Then she paused.
“I only have two hundred and eighty dollars to get me through the next two days,” she said quietly, almost embarrassed.
Adrian felt his chest tighten. He was about to tell her it was fine—that she didn’t need to—
But she looked at Lucas.
Children shouldn’t be hungry.
Her voice changed when she spoke to him. It was warmer, fuller.