Better the Devil

Chapter 1

One

Chef Boyardee is smiling at me.

Put me in your pocket and walk out the door, his voice whispers in my ear—it’s louder than the ringing I’ve been hearing the last day or so. Then find a quiet place to smash me open with a rock and use your fingers to shovel this delicious and one-hundred-percent

organic Beefaroni into your mouth until that burning pit in your stomach is plugged and you aren’t going to die.

Because I will die.

It’s been almost three days since I’ve eaten, and I walked into the corner store without even trying to not look homeless,

against my better judgment.

Judgment. Like that even exists anymore. I’ve been bathing in Starbucks bathroom sinks for eight months. What judgment could

I possibly have left?

The cashier has been watching me with his noodle eyes since I walked in the door. Delicious noodle eyes.

I turn to glance at him over my shoulder and there he is. Still watching.

Not with eyes made of noodles—brains struggle when starved—but with narrowed, dark eyes like a shark. I haven’t taken the

Beefaroni yet, which is why he’s letting me sit here staring at the can.

The can that’s absolutely not organic. It also doesn’t need to be bashed open with a rock because it’s a pull tab, but my nutrition-deprived brain doesn’t care about continuity.

It only cares that I get that Beefaroni into my stomach right now.

I can still feel the eyes of the cashier on my back. He’s a white guy in his forties. It’s probably his store, which is why

he’s staring so intently at someone who’s attempting to cut into his profit margin.

Part of me wants to walk right up to him, pull the tab off, and shove as much food into my mouth as I can. To see if he even

cares. Maybe he’d pity me and let me go.

But that’s where I am right now. So desperate for food I’m willing to look like an absolute lunatic to get something in my

stomach.

As if egging me on, my stomach rumbles. But not a normal rumble, because now the cramps that paralyzed me yesterday are back.

I put the can down and brace myself against the metal shelf, waiting for the wave of pain to pass. Three days without food

has been my limit since I left home eight months ago.

The door chime sounds, announcing more of an audience coming to see me looking desperate. I ignore it as the cramps slowly

fade.

Then I take a deep breath and pick the can back up. I need this. And I don’t care if the shop clerk is watching me; what’s

he going to do? Chase me down the street?

But he’s talking to whoever came in. If they went right over to him, it was probably to buy cigarettes or vapes behind the

counter. I can’t hear what they’re talking about, but the clerk is distracted enough.

So I slip the can into my pocket. I reach up and pull the other cans on the shelf forward so it doesn’t look like one was

taken.

Then I turn toward the front of the store, ready to make a quick, quiet exit.

Instead I stop in my tracks. Because there’s a cop standing right at the end of the aisle, staring at me as though he’s disappointed.

My eyes flit over to the counter, where another cop is talking to the clerk, but they’re both looking at me.

I’m so stupid.

I was so distracted by starvation, cramps, and overall desperation that I didn’t even think to look for cops. Something I’ve

been so good about.

And now, because of one little mistake, they’re going to arrest me and send me back to my parents.

“I’ll put it back,” I say.

But the cop—a middle-aged white guy with a mustache—just says, “Wouldn’t matter if you did.”

“Please. I was hungry and didn’t have any money.”

His eyebrows drop as he sizes me up. “How old are you?”

Shit.

“Eighteen,” I lie. What’s another year and ten months?

“ID?”

I shake my head. It’s in my backpack, which is stashed under a Starbucks dumpster two blocks away. The dumpster they started

locking up at night to keep people like me from grabbing the unsold food.

“What’s your name?” he asks. But I stay quiet.

If I don’t answer, they can’t put me in some system.

And they also can’t send me home. I doubt my parents even told anyone I ran away, so it’s not like my info will show up in their database, but if I am being arrested for shoplifting, at least I can hide my real name so I don’t have a criminal record.

The cop sighs and takes out his handcuffs. As he walks slowly down the aisle toward me, I beg him not to do it. But it doesn’t

matter. This guy doesn’t care who I am or what I’ve been through. To him, I did something illegal, and that means my whole

fucking life should be ruined.

As he turns me around and puts the handcuffs on my wrists—a little too tight, if you ask me—I can’t help but think this never

would have happened if my parents loved me.