"Keep your money," Clara said softly, her smile genuine. "Dinner’s on me tonight."
Henry looked at her, his pale eyes welling with quiet astonishment. "Why are you always so kind to me, miss?"
"Because no one should ever have to go hungry," Clara replied. "Especially on a night like this."
"You can’t keep doing this!" a sharp voice barked from the counter.
Marching over with heavy steps was Martha, the café’s owner. Dressed in a stiff maroon cardigan with wire-rimmed glasses perched on her nose, Martha glared at the table as if the old man were a pest contaminating her dining room.
"I’ll pay for his meal out of my tips, Martha," Clara said calmly, standing straight.
"This isn't about five dollars, Clara!" Martha snapped, ensuring the other customers in the room heard every syllable. "This is a respectable bakery, not a soup kitchen for vagrants! You drive away paying clientele by inviting people like him to sit at prime tables. I’ve warned you three times. This is your last shift. Hand over your apron—you’re fired."