When I was a boy, I lost a five-dollar bill and my family had nothing to eat for the week.
Back then family-run grocery stores were not the novelty they are now. They spread throughout cities like veins, providing the continual exchange of small amounts of money for precious nutrients. One of them was just two blocks outside of The Projects where I grew up, nestled in a neighbourhood of two-storey duplexes where, I thought, the rich people lived. I had been sent there to buy the standards for the week: bread, lunch meat, carrots, onions, apples. No dairy. We got dried milk, cheese and butter for free on Sunday after standing in a long line at the middle school.
I lost the five-dollar bill