Then whispered something to the man beside her.
A mother near the bakery pulled her little boy closer.
At first, I told myself I was imagining it.
Then someone said my name.
“Rebecca Miller?”
I turned.
An older man stood near a parked truck.
I recognized him.
Mr. Dalton.
He had been my high school history teacher.
“Hello.”
His expression changed.
Not exactly fear.
More like discomfort.
“I heard you were getting out.”
“Apparently everyone did.”
He looked embarrassed.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“It’s okay.”
He asked where I was staying.
I lied.
“With family.”
He seemed relieved.
People like simple answers.
I kept walking.
At the old grocery store, I went inside because my stomach hurt from hunger.
I bought a banana.
A bottle of water.
A packet of crackers.
Seven dollars and forty cents.
I counted the money twice.
A girl was stocking canned soup nearby.
