Part 2: She carried that note because sometimes one sentence is enough to keep a person from believing the world is only cruel.

Now the man who wrote it sat in front of her like he had forgotten the shape of his own name.

“Marshall Oakes,” she said.

He lifted his eyes.

For a second, he looked frightened, the way people look when they have been found before they are ready.

“Yes?”

Lena took a container from the cart. Fried chicken, red beans, rice, a slice of cornbread wrapped in foil. She set it beside him on the bench.

He stared at it.

“I didn’t order anything,” he said.

“No,” Lena replied. “You didn’t.”

“I can pay.”

“I know.”

His jaw tightened. Pride was the last expensive thing he owned.

Lena nodded toward the container.

“Eat before it gets cold.”

Then she turned the cart and pushed it away.

The next day, she came back.

Same bench.

Same man.

Same container.

This time, he looked at her longer.

“Do I know you?” he asked.
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