"Eat your mum," the shopkeeper snapped as he flicked the bag into the trash. "You throw it there, you keep it," Daria said, digging frozen fingers into the crumpled plastic as rain hammered the street. "Get off my property, tramp," he barked, leaning back inside the doorway with the door half-closed like it could shut her out of needing. "I don't need your lecture," Daria said. "Just the bread." "You smell like the river," he said. "Keep walking." A kid on the curb laughed. An old woman under the awning tutted and looked the other way. Daria ignored them. She pulled the bag open with both hands and found the loaf curled at the bottom, wrapped in damp paper. The crust flaked when she touched it; it smelled of yeast and the warm shop that had been her one safe place to buy a sandwich when she still had coins to spare. "Give it back," the shopkeeper said through the gap. "You can't take trash out of my bin." "This isn't trash," Daria said. She set the loaf against her ribs like a small child. "It's bread." "I call the police," he said. "Get off my step." "Try," Daria said. He shoved the door. It hit her shoulder; she barely kept her footing on the slick pavement. The shove wasn't hard, but it had the intention of a larger person deciding she was a piece of dirt. Her shoulder slammed into the curb. She