The cafeteria roared with noise, but Mrs. Allen had learned to spot silence.
Eli sat at the end of the table every day, his lunch tray untouched. No snacks. No juice box. Just his hands folded like he was waiting for permission to exist.
At first, she assumed he was picky. Or nervous. Or saving food for later. But by the third week, the pattern gnawed at her.
One afternoon, she knelt beside his desk. “Eli, are you hungry?”
He shook his head too fast.
When she asked to check his backpack, his face went pale.
Inside, there were no books. No crayons. Just neatly folded napkins. Plastic forks. Ketchup packets. Things other kids threw away.
“I bring these home,” he said quietly. “For my mom.”
Mrs. Allen sat on the classroom floor long after the bell rang.
That night, she made a call. Then another. Then another.
