His shoulders rise and fall with the size of his breath. He swallows, trying to banish the dry ache in his throat.

One bite, offered as a gift.

Curtis closes his eyes. Always, it seems to come back to that one last inch of movement: he leans in, opens his mouth just enough to take the pancake piece from her fingers, stays close as he chews the tiny bite of food. He can taste it this time, he realizes. Not very strongly, but it isn't like the mouthful of grit the Thin Mint became.