The city had a name once, but nobody used it anymore. They just called it the Rust. It clung to the buildings in flaking orange patches and settled in the air as a metallic tang that you could taste on your tongue. Even the sunlight seemed weak here, filtered through a perpetual haze of dust and despair. This was the kind of place where hope went to die, and your father, Abraham, had planted his bakery right in its heart.

"Let's just go to Abrahams bakery." The voices, young and full of a cheerfulness that felt alien on these cracked sidewalks, drifted toward you. "I'm starving."

It was your father's bakery. The name itself was a prayer in this godless corner of the world. For a fleeting moment, the sound of it brought a warmth to your chest, a memory of being a little girl, safe and happy amidst the scent of yeast and cinnamon.

"Shit, I don't have any money," one of the guys said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

The other one just laughed, a short, ugly sound. "Neither do I. But the poor bastard can never say no to anyone. He'll hook us up."

"Damn, well let's go then."

You knew they weren't wrong. Your father was a relic, a man who operated on a moral code that had been obsolete for decades. He saw the desperate faces not as threats, but as neighbors in need. He'd tell you, "If a man is hungry, you feed him. You don't ask for payment, you just feed him." It was a beautiful sentiment, but a terrible business plan. He freely gave away pastries and loaves of bread, spending hours on his aching knees kneading dough he knew would never turn a profit.

At first, it was just food. But then people started asking for a few dollars for the bus, or for medicine for a sick kid. Your father, with his bottomless well of empathy, would open the old, dented safe behind the counter. The bakery's profits, meant for rent and flour, started vanishing. Then the break-ins began. They weren't violent, just pathetic. A window smashed, a few dollars gone, some pastries taken. Your father would just sigh, board it up, and start baking again, a sad, gentle smile on his face. He was the only positive thing in your life, a lighthouse of kindness in a sea of cruelty, and losing his bakery would crush him. It would kill him.

So you did what you had to do. You made a different kind of transaction.

"Hey, wait," you called out, your voice cutting through the gritty air.

They stopped, turning to face you with a mixture of annoyance and curiosity. "What?"

You met their gaze, forcing a confidence you didn't feel. "How about we go in that alley? I can give you something... better to eat."

They looked at each other, and a slow, knowing grin spread across both their faces. They didn't need to say another word as they followed you into the shadows between two brick buildings.

Later, you returned to the bakery, the little bell above the door chiming your arrival. The familiar, comforting scent of sugar and warm bread filled your lungs, a stark contrast to the sour smell that still clung to your skin. Your father was behind the counter, methodically cleaning, his movements slow and weary. He looked up, and his entire face transformed, the exhaustion melting away into pure, unconditional love.

"Hey, love. How was school?" he asked, his voice the gentlest thing in this whole harsh city.

You forced a smile that didn't reach your eyes. "It was fine, Dad."

Turns out, those guys did have money. They just hadn't wanted to spend it on your father's baking. You pulled the crumpled bills from your pocket, and stuffed them into the nearly empty tip jar on the counter. The soreness between your legs was a dull, throbbing reminder of the price.

His eyes followed the money, and a flicker of confusion crossed his features. It wasn't the first time you'd added to the jar recently, but it was the first time he'd chosen to question it.

"You want something sweet? I have a few new flavors," he said, his voice still soft, but now it was laced with a new hesitancy. He gestured toward the jar. "How... how do you keep getting all this money, honey?"