But what surrounded Carmelita was not waste.

There were 3 kilos of untouched flank steak. A pot of mole poblano still giving off a faint warmth. Perfect red rice. Dozens of handmade tortillas, a tray of untouched sweet bread, and a kilo of fresh strawberries. All scattered on Italian ceramic. All perfectly edible, bathed in the silent tears of the employee.

“I told you that 100 percent of the leftovers go in the trash,” Miranda spat, her face contorted with classism and fury. “And you, like the cat you are, sneak them out.”

Carmelita didn’t look up. She wept with the silent resignation of someone who had been trampled on so many times that she had learned that any words would only make the blow hurt more.

Don Arturo felt a crack open in his throat. Nothing made sense. Why was his wife forcing him to throw away top-quality food? Why the cruelty in the eyes of the woman he slept with every night?

And then, the silence was broken by a small creak in the wooden hallway.

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