Felicity could only comprehend the smell as she was walked into the dinghy rental space—the carpet stank of smoke. As if the blast of cold from winter waging war outside wasn’t enough of a bother, now her nose was being attacked. As the heavy commercial door slammed shut, her fate in the brick building was sealed. 

While she wasn’t thrilled to be in this kind of establishment, she knew her mom had come into a tough spot financially.  For about a month now they had been living with her grandfather, a grouchy old man who didn’t talk much.  Her mom had to take care of him and Felicity for a while, but almost exactly a week before the closing of that downtown door, everything changed.

Her mother had gotten a call one evening, and there were a lot of tears. Felicity was guided away into the kid’s room, but if she was really quiet, she could hear her mom’s shushed words and yelling over the phone. Since that phone call, her mom had been going out during the day and leaving Felicity with her grandfather.

He wasn’t very talkative though; he would just sit in the living room on the couch and occasionally grumble a word or two. This inattentive behavior led to a few problems. He wouldn’t get up to make food even when she asked for some. Felicity had thought she could maybe try making some by herself, but she’s only 4, and her mom always told her to stay away from the oven.

So, on day 2 of her mother's absence at lunchtime, Felicity found a solution. Starving wasn’t an option, and if Felicity was hungry, her grandfather must have also been hungry. 

Using the step stool from the coat closet, Felicity reached the fridge handle and opened to the world of limited food. She had seen her mom make food a handful of times without touching the oven. With the power of determination and hope she could do anything, even make her own food.

She picked out a few items from the fridge, running back and forth between the fridge and a low chair in the kitchen. Every new ingredient she placed in a stack on the chair, prepping for the final step. When she was done with the fridge, she closed it like she saw her mom always had and pushed the stool against the counter next to it. The sound of the stool scraping against the tile stirred her grandfather, as his routine grumbling resumed from the living room.  This didn’t stop Felicity however, and she continued her mission, and climbed up and onto the countertop. From the upper cabinets, she grabbed a couple more things and collected them on the chair as well.

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She started combining, and in about 20 minutes, she mastered the craft of sandwiches. This was evident by the display of a messy peanut butter and jelly contrasted by one half-decent one both sat on the seat of the chair. The messy sandwich is decorated with smears of peanut butter all around the crust and the top slice of bread. The condiment explosion was hard to ignore, in her learning curve Felicity managed to get peanut butter and jelly on the chair seat, under the table, the butter knife, and all over herself. 

The final step of the operation was in order, so she picked up the dirty butter knife and climbed back up the step ladder. She made her way to the sink by crawling on the countertop, every advance forward added to the trail of leftover sandwich materials across the kitchen. Butter knife in hand, she turned the sink faucet on and proceeded to scrub the utensil clean, dropping it in the sink when finished. 

Returning to the sandwiches, she carefully wraps the neat sandwich in a napkin collected from the table. With the sandwich now dressed to perfection, she runs out of the kitchen and around the couch to her grandfather, who had fallen asleep. 

After about a minute of contemplating what to do, she decided food was more important than a nap, and poked him. With a startle, he says some not very friendly words and then notices Felicity, staring at her. She holds out the sandwich, nudging it in between his fingers and then taking off back into the kitchen. She returns with the messy sandwich and a bowl of carrots, plopping down on the living room floor, cradling the bowl and sandwich in her lap as she takes a bite out of a baby carrot.

Her grandfather grumbles as he eats, something nice this time, “...Thank you, Filly.”

-this is not the full chapter; the original draft was handwritten, and I have been slowly transferring it online and fully expanding it-