The man who managed the department, Carl, didn’t talk much. He was in his late forties, broad-shouldered, with permanent lines at the corners of his eyes that suggested he’d seen more than he said. He moved slowly but observed everything.
That afternoon, as I pretended to read something on my cracked screen, he stopped beside me. He held out a plain brown paper bag.
“My wife packed too much again,” he said casually. “You want it?”
I hesitated. Pride rose up first. Pride always does.
But hunger speaks louder.
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