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“Mommy, take the one with the butter,” the girl whispered. Her voice was light, carrying that soft, unblemished cadence of early childhood that had not yet learned to mask its worry. “The butter is the best part. You like the butter.”
The mother—whose hands remained folded tightly over an empty, stained cloth napkin in her lap—shook her head with an easy, rehearsed brightness that Arthur recognized with terrifying clarity. It was the same smile Arthur had worn for board members during the economic crash of 2008, the smile that said the foundation was solid while the basement walls were bowing beneath fifty tons of hydraulic pressure.
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“I had two sandwiches before we caught the bus from Ephrata, Chloe,” the mother said softly, her fingers gently reaching across the table to tuck a stray strand of dark, honey-colored hair behind the child’s ear. Her own knuckles were chapped, the skin red and cracked around the cuticles from cold water and harsh cleaning detergents. “I’m so full my tummy hurts. If I eat that, you won’t have enough fuel for Santa’s reindeer tomorrow. You know how fast they fly.”
