Page 164 of Fly's Path

“Sit.”

I do what she says without looking away from the food. She probably thinks I look like a rabid dog without any kind of manners,

“When I was a teenager, I went through something very similar. I know no one’s journey is the same, but with the help of my family and an amazing therapist, I was able to make some real progress…”

Dahlia's words make no sense. I try to listen to her, but all I can think about is my empty suitcase and all the miles I’ve run, and all that's left to do today. My friends are bound to notice if I’m too weak to work.

But the guilt I’ll feel eating will outweigh the lack of hunger pains.

Who makes french toast, a mountain of fluffy eggs, a pile of bacon, sausage, blueberry muffins, and a massive bowl of fresh fruit for one meal?

Am I drooling? Please say I’m not drooling. Are those fresh croissants and whipped honey butter?

This feels like cruel and unusual punishment.

It had to have taken dozens of dishes to make all of this.

Jackpot! There’s a sink full right there. If I do the dishes after eating, I wouldn’t feel as guilty.

“Now, I don’t know if you two would be a good fit or not, but I made arrangements for you to meet with her, and you don’t need to worry about what it costs. Everything is paid for already.”

What? I really should have been paying attention.

“You can work with her as long as you need, and if therapy isn’t enough, there are some really great in-patient care places.”

“What are you talking about?” It’s so tempting to just go make a plate, especially after she offered me a meal.

“Your eating disorder.”

“What eating disorder? I don’t have an eating disorder.” What exactly was she saying when I was lost in the food?

“I know it’s hard to acknowledge the fact that you do, but my therapist can help.”

“Dahlia, I don’t have an eating disorder.”

“Yes, you do. You’ve run every morning that you’ve been here. Too many miles for me to even think about it, but you do that and then come in and don’t eat a single bite of food most of the day. When we’re out, you pretend to eat or ignore the food altogether. The rest of us ate an entire meal, and you took two little tomatoes. It isn’t healthy. You’re hurting your body not eating enough food. While you’ve been here, you’ve lost several pounds that you can’t afford. Don’t tell me you don’t have an eating disorder, because the symptoms are right there in front of our faces as clear as day.”

“Dahlia, I don’t have an eating disorder.”

“Then why aren’t you eating? Are you sick? Do you have colon cancer or something?”

She won’t leave it. I know she’s trying to be nice, but she just won’t let it go. “I’m not sick. I don’t have cancer, nor do I have an eating disorder. I have a poverty disorder.”

“Huh?”

“I’m poor, and food is expensive. When we go out, I don’t eat anything, because I can’t afford to pay if I was asked.” It’s more than humiliating.

“Then why don’t you eat here?”

“I do. I just don’t eat your food when I can’t find some way to pay you back for it. I eat in my bedroom.”

“You eat in your bedroom.”

“Since I didn’t have to pay for an extra bag—” Or even a ticket. “—I packed a suitcase full of food.” It also helped me not waste food or leave it in my car for rats and squirrels to find.

“You’ve been eating food out of your suitcase.” Dahlia’s eyes fill with tears. “You helped save my life, and you’re afraid to eat food at my house.”

“I’m afraid to eat at everyone’s house.” But Fly’s…we won’t think about that right now.