He was wearing a black cap and dirty clothes. A little bit too big for him, likely donated. I still remember his eyes; he had strong, light-brown eyes. His face was completely covered in dust, but his eyes were clear. I went over to him and dug in my pockets, but I only had large bills. Then he put his fingers to his mouth. “Khobz,” he said. I knew that word. “Bread.” I made a sign for him to wait and went in to see Masri in the kitchen. Asked if there was any bread I could give away. He gave me a bagful. “Here,” he said. “Take it.” But when I came out again, the boy was gone. I went out of
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