I had said the words in every way I knew how — gently, firmly, patiently, over and over.

And the words had changed nothing, because words are processed by the conscious mind, and the fear that makes a hungry child hoard bread does not live in the conscious mind.

It lives deeper, in the body, in the old animal parts that keep us alive, and those parts do not speak English.

They do not believe reassurances.

They believe only evidence, accumulated slowly, one safe day at a time, until the sheer weight of the evidence finally overrides the old lesson.

That is why I never scolded Hannah for the bread, and never even mentioned it, and simply replaced the stale roll with a fresh one every morning without comment.