He found a crumpled paper bag with half a sandwich inside. Bread soaked through, meat dried out, but still food. He checked for mold, ready to share. But the back door slammed open. The manager stepped out, scowling, already reaching for his phone. Joshua didn’t wait around.
He grabbed his bag, whistled once. Lucky bolted beside him. They ran. Not full speed—just fast enough to be gone before anyone gave chase. They’d been chased before. Once the cops get involved, you don’t get food, you get warned. Or worse. He wasn’t sticking around to see which.