A soft clearing of throat, hesitant, careful, she turned. And there in the hallway where they'd never been before, stood Na and Eli. They looked different than the last time she'd seen them up close. Their clothes were still worn, but they'd been washed recently. Their faces were less hollow, still thin, but not starving.
And there was something else, something in the way they stood, less hunched, less ready to run, less invisible. Na was holding something wrapped in newspaper. Her small hands clutched it tight, like it was the most precious thing in the world, or like she was afraid it might disappear if she didn’t hold on hard enough. "Miss Amara," Eli's voice was soft, uncertain. Amara's heart leaped into her throat.
"What are you? You shouldn't be here. If Barlo, he's gone," Eli said quickly. "We watched. We waited." His truck left 10 minutes ago.
Still, Amara glanced down the hallway, listened for the sound of heavy boots. the slam of the walk-in door, but there was nothing, just the hum of the refrigerators and the distant sound of the dishwasher finally running again. "Na wanted to give you something," Eli said. His voice carried a mixture of pride and nervousness. "We both did, but she's the one who made it." Na stepped forward, one hesitant step, then another, until she was standing right in front of Amara, looking up with those wide eyes that had seemed too much for 8 years old.
When she spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper. It was only the second time Amara had heard her speak, and it still felt like a small miracle. We wanted to give you something warm, like you gave us. She held out the newspaper wrapped package. Her hands were shaking slightly.
Amara took it with trembling fingers. The newspaper was last week's edition. The classified section wrapped carefully and tied with a piece of string that looked like it had been saved from somewhere else. Reused because new string was a luxury they couldn’t afford. You didn’t have to, Amara started.
Yes, we did, Eli interrupted. His voice was firm, insistent. You give us food every night. You spend your own money. We see you, Miss Amara.
We see you getting thinner. We see you walking home in the rain instead of taking the bus. We know what it cost you. Amara's throat tightened. She hadn't thought they'd noticed.
Hadn't wanted them to notice. Open it. Na whispered. Please. Amara unwrapped the newspaper slowly, gently, like it was the most delicate thing she'd ever touched.
Inside was a scarf hand knitted in blue yarn that looked like it had come from a donation bin or a thrift store free box. The yarn was slightly rough, the kind that came from acrylic blends, cheap but durable. The stitches were uneven, some tight, some loose, some dropped and picked back up again with determination that showed in every loop. There were little knots where Na had obviously made mistakes and kept going anyway, refusing to give up. The edges were crooked.