The linoleum floor squeaked, giving a little under Thomas’s feet. His skinny arms, encrusted in layers of soot and grime, stretched to the top of the refrigerator, his fingers like antennae, fumbling over the dusty plateau in the dark. His hands gently grazed the rims of tin basins and the flexible folds of plastic-wrapped goods until the soft velvet of a hidden coin purse caught his coarse nails. Carefully and soundlessly, he pinched the obedient fabric, tugging its weight to the edge of the fridge. Sam was right, the Moores weren’t done giving.

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