At seventeen, fresh out of high school and freshly kicked out of my own home, I packed everything I owned into a single backpack and moved to a town I barely knew. My girlfriend lived there, and at the time I thought love would be enough to anchor me. It wasn’t.

Within a week, I was sleeping on a thin mattress in a cramped room I could barely afford and working the only job that would hire a kid with no experience—hospital laundry. I didn’t know the paychecks came only twice a month, or that my first one would be delayed because of onboarding paperwork. By the time I realized it, I had less than ten dollars to my name.

I bought a huge bag of rice and a few cans of tomato paste and convinced myself I could stretch it out. But rice and tomato paste don’t go as far as you think, not when you’re shoveling hospital linens eight hours a day in a room that always smelled like bleach and heat. By my third day, I was starving enough that my hands shook while folding sheets.

I tried to hide it, tried to act like skipping lunch was some kind of choice. But the man who ran the laundry, Carl, saw everything. He was the kind of guy who spoke little but noticed much.

That afternoon, as I sat alone pretending to scroll my phone instead of eat, he approached me with a brown paper bag. “My wife packed one sandwich too many,” he said casually, like it was nothing. “You want it?”

I hesitated—pride is a funny thing—but my stomach answered for me.

I thanked him and devoured the sandwich like I hadn’t eaten in days… because I hadn’t. The next morning, another “extra” sandwich appeared. And the day after that.

Each time, Carl shrugged it off. “She forgets we don’t need this many,” he’d say, but his eyes told a different story. I didn’t realize until much later that his wife wasn’t packing extras at all.