She wasn’t ordering pizza for convenience.
She was ordering it because it was the cheapest hot meal that would travel to her door.
On the mantle were faded photos—her in a nurse’s uniform from the 1970s, standing straight and proud.
She’d taken care of strangers for decades.
Now she was choosing between heat, medication, and food.
I swallowed hard.
“Actually,” I said, forcing a grin, “the system glitched. You’re our 100th customer today. It’s free.”
She hesitated. “You won’t get in trouble?”
“I’m the manager,” I lied. “Keep the change.”
I set the pizza on her lap.
