Gravel stung his calves as the car spun by.
“Gonna get yourself killed, boy,” the driver yelled out the window.
Seth moved closer to the tree line, and kept his gaze down. He was at the Stowolski's, midpoint on the trek. Hands in pockets, he shifted his gaze. Two squirrels scurried around a pile of acorns. It was fall. He could tell the season by the squirrels' earnest food hunt for the long winter ahead.
Another car. This one facing him. He lowered his eyes again and stuck his hands more deeply in his pockets. The car sped by without taking note of him.
There it was. The single-story, red brick house. His heart sank and he quickened his pace. Get it over with.
That grey door, the polished knob. He rapped firmly with his closed fist. He could feel her looking at him through the peephole.
She waited, as though if she waited long enough he'd leave. But he couldn't go home empty handed. So he stayed, conspicuous on the doorstep. Any passing car could see him clearly. Could they guess? Was there something about him that gave away the secret?
The door opened.
“Yes, Seth?”
Her green eyes peered at him. She knew why he was there. But she made him form the words. She made him ask.
“My mother wants to know if we can borrow some spaghetti.”
A mix of hostility, satisfaction and superiority in her expression.
“Wait there.”
She shut the door. How long did that door stay closed? Was she thinking about not giving it? Was she thinking about how much to give? Or was she simply showing her displeasure by making him wait?
The door opened. She held the box of spaghetti for a moment while she regarded him. Then she wordlessly handed it across. Half a box. She shut the door.
He didn't dare step on her grass, but quickly left by the tiled foot path. The box was under his arm, as concealed as possible. Could anyone guess what he carried? Why he had a box of spaghetti under his arm?
He walked briskly, almost ran, but not so as to attract attention. Stowolski was in the yard now, raking. There was no way around. Seth couldn't move the spaghetti box to the other arm without drawing attention. Maybe Stowolski wouldn't see him.
“Hey, Seth. You're out early.”
Hand on rake, eyes hidden beneath a wide-brimmed hat.
Seth nodded and almost sprinted past. Stowolski knew. Everyone knew. But no one said anything. Why was that? It was almost harder to keep quiet than to tell the truth.
The squirrels were gone. Must be that they were foraging further in the woods. The hunt for food drove them from morning till night as fall settled in.
Home. Seth broke into the trot he had been resisting. There it was, the refuge of privacy.
He walked through the tall grass to the back of the house and delivered the spaghetti to his mother.
“Did she say anything?” His mother was looking for clues. His father's sister was their only source of food when the cupboard ran dry. She never said no. Maybe, though, one day she would.
His mother cooked the spaghetti for dinner and they split it up equally among the five of them. Seth didn't want to eat, but he did. The plate was clean when he'd finished. All their plates were clean.
He went out in the yard after supper. The squirrels were there, rushing about. The sun was setting. Soon they'd be back to their nests, resting till morning. Then the day would begin again. It always began in the same way, with uncertainty about whether they would find enough food to survive the long winter.
Picture source: @agmoore, drawn digitally a few years ago, edited for this story. I ran it through a Lunapic filter.