I desperately needed something to do with my hands. I opened my wallet and looked through it for a receipt. I folded it and tore it into a perfect square, getting to work on a piece of origami.
Emma watched my hands. “What are you making?”
“This paper kinda sucks, so a crane. It’s easy enough.”
She continued watching. “You do it before games, don’t you?”
“I do it a lot,” I said, chewing my bottom lip as I made a deep crease down the center.
“What’s your favorite to make?”
I gave that some thought while my fingers deftly folded the receipt paper. “Lately, cranes. They say if you make a thousand of them, all your wishes will come true.”
“How close are you to a thousand cranes?”
I sighed. “Not close enough.”
Emma nodded, resting her chin on her fist. “And what are you wishing for, Mr. Royce?”
“If I told you,” I held up the finished crane on my palm, “they wouldn’t come true.”
I lowered my hand, holding it out for her to take. “For me? Does that mess with your wishes?”
I shrugged. “I’m content to keep folding. Cranes also bring happiness.”
“And you don’t want to keep all the happiness for yourself?” Emma asked.
I paused, looking across the table at her. This woman saved my life and changed the way I saw everything. I thought about how she made soup for the shelter. She easily could have clocked out at the end of her workdays, let the food go to waste. But instead, she put in a little extra work and spread the love around.
Before the bus, I’d wanted to hold that happiness for myself, now it seemed more important to share it with someone else.
“Not anymore.” I nudged the crane her way with the back of my finger. “For you.”
Emma’s cheeks flushed, and I noticed how it warmed her whole appearance. She took the crane from my palm and stretched it in her fingers to make it fly. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Hey, how often do you take soup to the shelter?”
She let out a slow breath and set the crane on the table, reaching for the bread basket. “Every day that I work. And sometimes I bring in extra when I think we won’t have as much left over. Then I freeze portions for the weekend. It’s probably technically stealing from the company or something, but I don’t really think y’all are hurting for money.”
I chuckled. “Okay, Robin Hood.”
“Well? Tell me who in management has gone hungry. I bet the number is zero.”
I hummed to agree. I picked up my butter knife and cut off some of the swirled yellow peak. I held it up and noticed little brown flecks. I spread it over my bread and took a bite.
And struggled not to spit it out. Not because it was disgusting, but because it was unexpected. “The fuck? This is sweet?”
“People love this shit, Mr. Royce.”
“God, all the stuff about Americans being addicted to sugar is true.”
“Well. Sugar is good. It’s cheap.”
I shook my head. “Don’t get me started on the American capitalist complex in food.”
Emma grinned and narrowed her eyes. “Such a rebel you are.”
“Well, it is! The system is rigged to keep us poor, sick, and hungry.”