Agitated with hunger, Charlie threw the first stone. He couldn’t see where it hit, but knew the damage was done. Another flew overhead, then another, and without regard the sea of people bent as a wave of violence.
But blood on the street would not rise another loaf of bread. If only the workers on the “grub truck” hadn’t been disturbed by so many desperate eyes. When they kept driving, Charlie knew that’d be it. No more bread. Nothing. Because when it came to throwing stones, their leaders knew to throw the last. Always.
