Pat stepped outside and saw a figure yanking up handfuls of rushes from the marsh garden.
“Those’re mine, you know.”
The figure whirled. “I’m hungry, okay?”
“How about some real food?”
“Sure.”
“I’m Pat.”
“Shannon.”
They walked to the house. The supper smells greeted them at the door like a spouse’s kiss.
They ate in silence, Shannon wolfing down the food.
“Do you have a place to stay?” Pat asked.
“No.”
“You can stay here.”
“You got an extra bed?”
“I’ll take the floor.”
Shannon’s face was night sky of distrust, but still a tiny star of hope shone through.