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She shrugs. “They’re always sneaking around.”
“Why didn’t he come to the house?”
“Because he’s careful. You never know. Maybe he thinks you’ll chase him away.”
“Why would I do that?”
“People always chase us away.”
I take her shoulders and turn her to face me. “If you take people’s property or break it, they will want to chase you away. If you’re kind and respectful, they’ll be more inclined to be welcoming. Do you understand?”
She bobs her head. “You don’t want me to take people’s stuff and break their flowers.”
“Exactly.” I hold out my hand. “Come on. Let’s go check what we can make for lunch.”
We decide on grilled chicken and baked potatoes. While the chicken grills in the oven, we mix cake batter. When the food is ready, I set the table on the veranda in the sun. It doesn’t take long for a scruffy boy with a dirty face to emerge from the woods.
He’s not dressed in rags, but his clothes have seen better days. I judge him to be about four years older than Sophie. I pretend not to see him as he slowly creeps closer.
“Sabella,” Sophie whispers, leaning over the table.
“I know,” I whisper back.
It’s not until I carve the chicken that he finally walks up with a straight back and his arms standing away from his body.
“Hey,” he says in a brusque manner, stopping at the rail.
I acknowledge him with a smile. “Hey.”
He points at the chicken. “Give me that food.”
“Are you hungry?”
He fixes his gaze on the chicken, almost salivating as he nods.
“Then you can join us at the table when you’ve washed up,” I say.
He glares at me. “Why will I do that?”
“We wash our hands before we eat, Johan,” Sophie says, swinging her legs.
“I never wash my hands to eat,” he grunts.
“That’s the rule,” I say. “You can use the bathroom inside.”
Stomping to the garden tap, he opens it and scrubs his hands. He shakes off drops of water as he returns. “There. Happy?”
It’s a start. “Sit down.”
He watches me with wary eyes as he climbs the steps and scrapes a chair over the floor. Throwing himself in the seat, he says, “Give me some chicken now.”
“The magic word is please.”
“Please,” he snaps.
I dish up a big portion of chicken and potatoes on his plate. “My name is Sabella.”
He grabs his fork in a fist and mutters, “Johan.”
