Roman’s the new kid, and the new kid eats last. Nobody, least of all his new foster mother, asks him what he likes. He eats whatever she sets in front of him when his turn comes. Usually it is boiled and mushy. Often it bears the stamp of the can it came from. Sometimes it’s hot, sometimes it’s cold. One summer day it is a piece of steak, a miracle of moist, tender flavor. Roman looks up, the alien emotions of hope and gratitude shining in his eyes. What? his foster mother says. It’s not like I don’t feed you.
PS: Pokey—Not your Roman.
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