Lena
My stomach let out a hollow, treacherous growl that seemed to echo off the oil drums. I dropped the oily rag and pressed my palm against my ribs, trying to hush the noise.
"Shut up," I muttered to my own gut. "We had bread. We're fine."
I reached into my pocket, my fingers brushing the lining, searching for the familiar crinkle of a bill. Nothing. Just a few cold coins and the note he’d left me yesterday. I pulled them out—two quarters and a dime.
"Sixty cents. Fantastic. That’s half a coffee if the diner is feeling charitable."
I looked at the coins, my vision blurring with a sudden, sharp spike of hunger-induced temper. The clinic was paid. The garage door was fixed. But I couldn't even buy a sandwich without feeling like I was spending blood money.
"You're going to waste away
