"Eat your fill of trash, beggar," the clerk sneered as he tossed the bag.
"What is wrong with you?" someone behind the counter laughed.
"Get out," Cornelius Barr said, wiping his hands on his apron like he owned the rain.
Juliette "Jude" Thompson bent to pick up the plastic bag without answering. Her fingers smelled of wet paper and street smoke. The rain turned the edge of the bag to soup, but it held bread and a cold sandwich. That was enough.
She didn't beg. She took.
A woman at the bus stop tutted. "Shame," the woman said.
"Shame?" Cornelius answered. "Shame is spending my time on charity when my rent's due."
Jude looked up. She saw the shelves through the glass, canned goods, a poster for cheap coffee. She saw Cornelius's face, small and mean and used to winning. She saw money she did not have.
"You gonna stand there admiring it or are you leaving?" Cornelius spat.
Jude moved like she always did—fast and careful. She shoved the soggy bag inside her jacket and walked away with her head down.
Rain hit the main street with a rhythm that matched the city cough. She slipped on the gutter and fell hard enough to bruise her hip. A kid with a skateboard bumped past and didn't stop.
"You okay?" a passerby called.
"Fine," Jude said. She coughed rainwater out and kept walking toward the alley behind the store. Her coat soaked through in patches
