Today I came back to her house sooner than I meant to.

I ran out of food faster than expected. On my way home last time, a squirrel startled me near the fence, and I dropped almost half of what I was carrying just to escape. I still feel foolish thinking about it.

As I get closer, I hear music again. She’s playing today. That usually means she’s in a good mood. I stop and listen from where I always do, near the wall, until the song ends. I don’t want to interrupt her.

“It’s me,” I call out at last, keeping my voice steady.

She seems pleasantly surprised to hear me again so soon. I admit what happened, embarrassed, explaining that I had some trouble with what I took last time.

She doesn’t scold me. Instead, she laughs softly and tells me I can take more if I want. That I always take too little.

“It’s like you’re feeding a hamster, not a person,” she jokes.

I smile to myself at that, though it tightens something in my chest. One day, I’ll have to tell her the truth.

As she speaks, I look at the small hole in the corner I use to get inside the house every time.

I step a little closer, ready to talk with her again.