I did not drop the bag. Not yet. My hands were steady, weathered by years of scrubbing hospital floors and planting vegetables no one else wanted. I stood there, quiet, holding on to the only offering I had brought.

That was when she shoved me.

I had not expected it. Not from her, not in front of that pristine entryway. But she pushed me hard, her palm flat against my shoulder, like swatting away a ghost that had overstayed its welcome. I fell backward, stumbled down the smooth stone steps, and landed hard on the edge of the walkway. The bag of oranges tore open. They spilled across the ground, bouncing one by one down the slope. Some rolled into the street. Others cracked open, their juice darkening the concrete.

She did not move to help me. Instead, she glanced back over her shoulder, worried not about me, but about whether anyone inside had seen. I looked up, my elbow ached. My knees throbbed from the fall. But I looked up, and I saw her face—calculated, cold.