“Don’t say his name like that, Fiona. He needs help.”

I crossed my arms. I was cold, hungry, and cruel in the way wounded children sometimes are.

“Why? He’s just some man behind our house.”

Mom turned toward me, her face suddenly drained of color.

“No,” she said. “He isn’t just some man.”

“Then who is he?”

For a moment, I thought she was finally going to answer.

Instead, she pressed the warm container into my hands.

“Take him his food, hon.”

I stared at her.

“Maybe if you stopped feeding strangers, we wouldn’t live like this.”

Mom slammed her palm against the counter so hard that I jumped.

“Don’t you ever say that again. Do you hear me? You have no idea what that man gave up.”

“Gave up for who? You?”

Her body trembled.

Then she turned away.

“Take him his food, Fiona. This conversation is over.”

So I did.

Victor sat near the fence, rubbing warmth back into his hands.

“Your mom make soup today?” he asked.

“Yeah. Chicken.”