She damn well knew that last suppers weren’t going to change anything: They wouldn’t make bad men good, they wouldn’t make up for any brutality exacted by the guards, they wouldn’t ease the suffocating fear of meeting death. The closest thing she could liken it to was bringing a casserole to a family after a funeral. For her, food did what words could not. It said, “I’m sorry for the loss. I’m sorry I can’t do more to help.”
