He looked terrified to say goodbye, as if gratitude had become more dangerous than hunger.
‘I won’t always be like this,’ he said.
Victoria tilted her head.
‘Like what?’
‘Poor.’
It was such a fierce thing for a child to say that she laughed before she meant to.
He flushed red, but he kept going.
‘I’ll come back,’ he said.
‘I’ll come back when I’m rich and marry you.’
She laughed harder then, not because she was cruel, but because children often promise impossible things in the same tone adults reserve for weather reports.
Then, still smiling, she untied the red ribbon from one braid, tore it in half with her teeth and hands, tied one piece around his wrist, and curled his fingers over it.
