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Luck

“My name’s Blot,” says the child. “Give me some of that.”

She’s clearly starving; Luck took her at first for four years old, but now he sees her growth’s been stunted. She’s probably only two years younger than he. Luck hesitates anyway, annoyed. “And what if I don’t?”

“I’ll bite,” she says simply, and grimaces. It’s not a threat, just a display of wares: she’s missing some teeth, and the remainders are a wreck. That bite means infection, maybe death.

Grudgingly, he breaks off a chunk of the corn bread and tosses it away. Blot has it before it hits dirt.

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