I did not say a word. I just walked into the back, grabbed the chicken sandwich and apple I had packed for lunch, and set them in front of her.
“Eat.”
Her face went red. “I can’t take your food.”
“Yes, you can.”
She stared at the sandwich for one second, then picked it up and ate so fast my eyes stung. Something was very wrong.
“Where are you staying?” I asked.
“With a friend,” she said.
It was a lie. I knew it right away. Not because she was good at lying, but because she was not.
“Mia,” I said softly, “I’m an old bookseller, not a police officer. I’m not here to trap you. But you walked in here shaking, hungry, and soaked in freezing rain. If you want a job, I need the truth.”
Her chewing slowed. Her fingers tightened around the sandwich.
Finally, she whispered, “Sometimes I sleep at the bus station.”
I closed my eyes.
“And sometimes,” she went on, voice trembling, “I stay behind a diner where the owner lets me sit near the heaters after closing. He says as long as I don’t bother anyone, he won’t bother me.”
I sat down across from her. “Why?”
“My mom got sick last year. She used all our money. After she died, the landlord gave me two weeks. My aunt said I was too much trouble. She let me stay for a while, but her boyfriend started being mean…”
Her voice faded.
“And you left,” I said.
She nodded.
I looked at that child and something inside me rose up. Something fierce. Something protective. It had been sleeping under years of quiet hurt, but now it was awake.
“No child should be living like that,” I said.
“I’m not a child,” she muttered.
“You are seventeen,” I replied. “That is still a child to me.”
That almost made her smile again.
I stood up. “You can help in the shop today. Shelves need sorting. If you do well, we’ll talk about part-time work.”
Her eyes widened. “Really?”
“Yes.”
“Even though you don’t know me?”
I looked straight at her. “That may be changing faster than you think.”
