Chapter Nine - Feeding the Folks

CHAPTER NINE

Feeding the Folks

MAX’S SNEAKERS SLAPPED the pavement like war drums.

He wasn’t running away this time, he was running toward something.

He zipped back home, cracked open the shoebox with reverence, and gently placed the Mom Taco on a pillow. “I’ll be back,” he whispered, like it was an action movie and she was the hero on pause.

Then he did what he should’ve done from the very beginning.

He grabbed a hoodie, threw on a backpack, and stretched out his left hand.

Time to taco.

He touched the lamp: taco.

The basketball: taco.

His broken Rubik’s Cube: taco.

Each touch brought a new shell, a new smell, a new chance.

He filled the backpack.

Then he headed downtown.

The first person he saw was an old man on a bench feeding pigeons breadcrumbs from a ripped sandwich bag.

Max sat down next to him.

“Want a taco?”

The man looked over, blinked, then smiled. “You know what? Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

Max unzipped the bag and handed one over.

By the third person, Max was grinning.

By the sixth, he felt something strange, lighter.

Like he wasn’t cursed anymore. Like maybe this power hadn’t been a punishment, it had been a reminder.

Every taco he gave out wasn’t just food. It was an apology.

A thank you.

A gift.

One kid at the park yelled, “Dude! Free tacos?!” and started running in zigzags like it was Christmas and recess rolled into one.

Max laughed. For the first time all week, he actually laughed.

The sun started to rise.

He had two tacos left.

He looked at his hand.

And then… he started walking back home.

Back to the shoebox.

Back to Mom.

Maybe.

Just maybe.

He’d learned enough to try again.