Hunger had become a familiar companion for young Lucas, but that afternoon, it was not his own empty stomach that stopped him in his tracks.
Lucas was 12 years old, and hunger was something he understood better than most boys in his class.
It was not the loud, dramatic kind people talked about on television.
This hunger was quiet and constant.
It twisted in his stomach during math lessons, making it hard to focus while Mrs. Patterson covered the board with fractions. By the time school ended, it trailed him home, a hollow ache that refused to loosen its grip.
His mother, Irene, worked long shifts at the nursing home across town. She left before the sun rose and often came back when it had already set. Her shoulders always seemed tight, her eyes tired but gentle.
That morning had been like many others.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Irene had said, standing in their small kitchen. The light above the stove flickered as she wrapped a sandwich in wax paper. “It’s just a sandwich and an apple today.”
Lucas had shrugged, forcing a grin.
“That’s okay, Mom. I like your sandwiches.”
She smiled, but it did not reach her eyes. There had been just enough bread left for two slices. Just enough peanut butter scraped from the jar. The apple was small and slightly bruised.
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