Lizie didn’t eat like starving people. She measured. A spoonful of rice, carefully measured. A single piece of chicken. Two carrots placed beside it. She looked up at the slightest noise—the clinking of forks, the creaking of chairs—the way you hold yourself up when you’re unsure of your safety.
Dan tried, as always.
“So, Lizie, how long have you been friends with Sam?”
A slight shrug. Her gaze remained downcast. “Since last year.”
Sam spoke up before the silence fell. “We do sports together. Lizie is the only one who can run the kilometer without complaining.”
A faint smile touched Lizie’s face. She took her glass of water, drained it in one gulp, refilled it from the carafe, and took another sip. Her hands were trembling.
I looked at the food on the table, then at the two girls, and did the math for the second time that evening: less chicken, more rice, a different distribution. No one would notice.
Dan continued the conversation.
