Their apartment stunk. It was the smell of Stale beer and fried onions, the kind that crawled into the walls and stayed there because no one cared enough to wash it out.
Noah moved through the cramped kitchen, setting two mismatched plates on the wobbly table. Then he scooped instant noodles into one, and reheated yesterday's stew for the other.
The boy wiped the rim of his father's plate with the corner of his shirt, not out of affection, but because if it looked messy, Anthony would complain.
For a moment, Noah just stared at the food.
This was dinner for his father and nothing for himself. His stomach growled, but he ignored it. He had a shift soon. The diner didn't allow staff to eat on the clock.
So he set the spoon down and walked to the living room, where Anthony sat in his sagging recliner, eyes glued to a sports rerun. Beer cans formed a castle around him, a sight that made Noah's nose crumple in disgust.
