A shabbily dressed woman with wrinkled skin and rotting teeth enters the shack. She’s holding a steaming hot bowl of soup.
She sits on the bed, the mattress groaning under her weight. Her fingernails have dirt in them. “Eat,” she says, practically shoving the hot bowl of soup in my hands.
I take it from her before it spills on top of me and scalds me. “Thank you,” I say.
She says, “Eat.”
A few minutes ago, I would have said I wasn't hungry. But now that I see the bowl of soup and smell it, my stomach rumbles. So I do as she says. I bring the bowl of soup to my mouth and blow at it a few times before taking a sip. I try not to make a face because of how salty and grainy the soup is. I take another sip and another. While I’m busy slurping the soup, the old woman moves further up the bed
