That was the first time Evelyn bought me food.
A chicken salad sandwich, a bottle of water, and a lemon cake slice she claimed she had accidentally bought too much of.
I ate in my truck with the heater barely working while she sat beside me in the passenger seat, hands folded over her handbag, asking me small questions as if I were not a disaster in muddy boots.
My name.
Where I was from.
Whether I had family nearby.
Whether I had a safe place to sleep.
I lied about that too.
She listened quietly.
Then she said, “You remind me of my grandson.”
“Do you have one?”
“No,” she said, looking out through the windshield. “I suppose I mean you remind me of the grandson I used to imagine having.”
That should have made me feel something decent.
Instead, the first thing I thought was that lonely people were easy to fool.
