SOUND OF HUNGER

MRETA'S POV:

The air burned in my throat. Each gasp was a raw scrape, but the fire in my chest wouldn't go out. My sneakers slipped on wet weeds, the damp earth trying to pull me down. My legs pumped in the frantic, clumsy rhythm of a trapped animal.

"Get back here, you little rat!" a man's voice bellowed. Too close.

Thief!

The word wasn't just a shout; it was a brand they were trying to press on my skin. Last week, a missing pie. The week before, a broken window I was nowhere near. They never needed proof—just my face, my family name. I could already hear the excuses in their voices. Well, you look the part. You know how that family is.

The unfairness of it all was a sick, heavy feeling in my gut, worse than the fear. It was the certainty on their faces, the sneer on their lips that made my hands clench into fists, even as I ran for my life.

Their footsteps thundered behind me, shaking the ground. It was the sound of grown men furious at a kid. A stupid glance over my shoulder confirmed it. Three of them. Mr. Henderson from the market, his face purple with rage, and two others, their faces twisted in anger. Their shouts blurred into one ugly roar as my eyes filled with hot, stinging tears. The world dissolved into a smear of grey and black.

Then, everything stopped.

A calloused hand clamped down on my shoulder, spinning me around. Another hand seized my arm, twisting it up my back until I heard a pop near my ear. Fingers tangled in my hair, yanking my head back.

"Got you," a voice hissed, smelling of stale coffee and cigarettes.

My cheek scraped against the ground, sharp pebbles digging into my skin. Dirt and blood filled my mouth. The first kick landed in my side with a dull thud that knocked the air from my lungs. White-hot pain shot through me. I tried to scream, but only a dry rattle came out.

"That's for my boy's window!" one of them grunted.

Another kick slammed into my back. I curled into a ball, my arms covering my head, but it was useless. Their boots were everywhere.

"Think you can just take what you want?" Mr. Henderson sneered, his boot connecting with my ribs. "This'll teach you."

Something hot and sharp burned inside me, brighter than the pain. It was pure hate. A silent curse for every single one of them. It was the only thing I had left.

A sharp impact to my head, and stars exploded behind my eyes. A high-pitched ringing drowned out their voices. The world was just a distant thudding against my bones as my body went heavy and numb. I was just a thing on the ground. I couldn't move. I couldn't even think another curse. There was only the dirt against my cheek, the taste of my own blood, and the quiet, terrifying darkness rushing up to meet me.

Then, a loud growl ripped through the silence.

It wasn't an angry man. It wasn't me. It was a stomach. A very loud, very hungry stomach.

"Glorp... glorp..."

The sound was so normal it was jarring, pulling me out of the nightmare. I pushed myself up, shaking. My cheek still ached with a phantom throb.

"What was that?" I grunted, my voice rough.

Thyme nervously lowered the book he was holding. "Uh... nothing! Just a noise."

He tried to look innocent, but his stomach rumbled again, a loud, betraying growl. His face went bright red. I just stared at him. This kid was a walking contradiction—looked like a strong wind could knock him over, yet he attracted mobs and had the loudest digestive system I'd ever heard. It was so jarringly normal it felt like a splash of cold water after the dream.

"Trying to see if I was asleep?" I asked, letting a smirk spread across my face. He’d obviously been hovering.

"No! I was..." Thyme stammered, panicking.

"Stop making excuses," I said, putting on the arrogant tone I used to keep people at a distance. "It's obvious you're one of my admirers."

He bristled, his whole small frame tensing with anger. He looked like he wanted to punch me but was smart enough not to try. My smirk widened.

"I don't care what you think," he snapped. "I'm tired of being misunderstood by a bastard like you!" He turned and stomped back to his chair.

I let out a loud laugh that echoed on the rooftop. "You're funny." His anger was genuinely amusing. He kept his back to me, his shoulders rigid.

"I was joking, you know," I said. "I know you're not my admirer. I don't think any of my admirers have a stomach that loud."

His shoulders got even stiffer. "It didn't happen! Stop saying that!" he mumbled, but we both knew it had. I laughed harder.

"Stop laughing at me, you stupid giant gorilla!" The words flew out of his mouth. He immediately slapped a hand over it, like he could take them back. He looked like a mouse caught in a trap.

I tilted my head, my laughter dying down to a chuckle. "Okay, okay. I'll stop laughing, Snotty Kid."

His jaw dropped. I could practically see the indignant short-circuit happening in his brain. But he kept his mouth shut. Smart.

I sat up. "I'm hungry too," I announced. "Want to get something to eat?"

His brain sputtered. "Are you serious? Do you think I'm some kid who just goes with a stranger because he offered food?" he shot back automatically.

"My treat," I added, challenging him. "Anything you want."

I watched the words "free food" go to war with his pride right there on his face. He was actually struggling with it. This guy was annoying, but... free food was a powerful argument.

"Unless you'd rather stay here and listen to your stomach sing," I said, already walking toward the exit. "Your choice."

He scrambled to his feet, a huge, relieved smile breaking out. "No, no! A treat sounds great! Anywhere is fine!" he chirped, falling into step beside me. The second food was on the table, all his previous anger just vanished. This kid's priorities were something else.

But it reminded me of something. When I was eleven, so hungry I couldn't think straight, sleeping in a park. Someone had left a lunchbox next to me. I smelled fried chicken and sticky rice. I was scared it was poisoned, but I was too hungry to care. I opened it. The sticky rice was shaped like a little yellow cat. The fried chicken was perfectly crispy. It was the best thing I had ever tasted in my life. The sticky rice wasn't plain; it tasted like mango. I never knew who left it.

I don't know why, but this snotty kid reminds me of that feeling. That hunger. That's why I want to buy him food.

As we walked down the stairs, Thyme was incredibly twitchy, his head swiveling like he was expecting an ambush. He grabbed my arm, stopping me on a landing.

"Do you... do you notice everyone looking at us?" he whispered, his voice tight.

I glanced down the hallway. A few people looked over, sure. People always looked. But Thyme was practically vibrating with anxiety.

"Ignore them," I grunted, starting to walk again. "Who cares?"

I was used to people staring. My solution was to stare back harder until they looked away. But Thyme's terror just seemed to draw more attention. He was a magnet for the very thing he was scared of, and for some reason, I was right there with him.