“Am I making you late?” he asked.

“Late for what, buddy?”

“For work.

Because you’re making my food.”

I told him my new shift didn’t start until Monday.

He nodded, but he still ate fast, without asking for the strawberry jam he loved.

When I held it out to him, his eyes flicked toward the hallway, as if somebody might get angry at him for wanting something extra.

He had learned to take up as little room as possible in a house that was supposed to be his.