Studying at Western University starts with a knife-forging competition

The woman in purple paused for a moment while dividing the sandwiches, and the corners of her mouth turned down.

She nudged the bearded man next to her with her elbow and gestured with her chin toward Lin Yuan. The bearded man followed her gaze, and his expression changed—not with guilt, but with the annoyance of being reminded of something he didn't want to remember.

The man in the baseball cap didn't look up, but his hands moved more slowly. He placed a sandwich on the plate, crookedly, then picked it up and put it back on.

Lin Yuan looked away and continued handing out milk. The line was still moving forward. The old man with glasses was in the middle of the line, nodding at him as he received his milk. Last time he said the cookies were delicious, his tone was so serious, as if he were commenting on something important.

"Emily made the cookies today," Lin Yuan said.

The old man glanced towards the sandwiches. Emily was bending over, handing a sandwich to a child who barely reached her waist, a smile on her face—not a perfunctory one, but a genuine smile that looked the child in the eye and nodded. The old man turned back to look at Lin Yuan.

"Which one tastes better, yours or hers?" he said.

Lin Yuan thought for a moment. "She made it. My last batch burned."

The old man nodded in satisfaction, took the milk, and left.

The line continued forward. Everything was normal, following the same rhythm as last time, just as quiet. The sandwich tray was slowly emptying, and the milk carton was almost gone. The fluorescent lights hummed, and sunlight streamed in through the crack in the door, drawing a bright line on the floor.

Then Lin Yuan noticed that the woman in purple had left her spot.

She emerged from behind the long table, her steps slowing as she passed the milk section. Her gaze lingered on Lin Yuan's face, catching her eye out of the corner of her eye. That look wasn't simply hostility—it was a calculated assessment. Like someone scrutinizing something blocking their way, unsure whether to kick it away.

She walked over to the lockers, rummaged through her bag, and then closed it. Then she walked back, this time not circling back to her original spot, but straight up to Lin Yuan.

"Your name is Lin Yuan, right?" The voice wasn't loud, but it wasn't quiet either, just enough for the people around to hear. It wasn't a question, but a confirmation—confirming that she already knew your name.

"Yes."

"About last time," she said, "the time you threw the food out."

She rubbed her fingers together on the edge of her apron.

"You think you're right, don't you?"

This is not a question.

Lin Yuan handed out the next carton of milk, watched the people in line take it and walk away, and then turned around.

Is there a problem?

"What's the problem?" The woman in purple chuckled, not in a friendly way, but in a way that seemed to be enjoying herself. "You throw three meals of food at homeless people and let them scramble for them like dogs. You think that's okay?"

Several people in line nearby turned their heads. The bearded man's hand, which was distributing sandwiches, hung suspended in mid-air, the sandwich held between two fingers. The man in the baseball cap looked up, his eyes peeking out from the shadows beneath the brim, and glanced in their direction.

"That little girl," the woman in purple's voice was a bit louder than before, "went home empty-handed. She queued for twenty minutes and got nothing. Do you think you helped her?"

Whispers rippled through the queue. Some frowned, others took a half-step back. The old lady pushing the shopping cart had already reached the door; hearing the noise, she turned around, her grey-blue eyes shifting between the woman in purple and Lin Yuan.

Lin Yuan put the carton of milk on the table and turned to face her.

"I--"

"He did nothing wrong."

Emily's voice came from the other end of the long table.

She walked over from the sandwich shop, her apron straps swaying gently behind her. Her steps were slow, but each one was steady. She didn't smile; her lips were pressed into a thin line, her eyes fixed on the purple clothes—not a stare, but a scrutiny. The kind of unblinking gaze that made it impossible to miss a single change in the other person's expression. Exactly the same stare she gave those three people in the basement last time. The lake in winter was still on the surface, but frozen solid underneath.

The woman in purple paused, her lips moving as if she wanted to say something, but Emily didn't give her a chance.

"You just said he threw food for the homeless to snatch." Emily stopped in front of the woman in purple, about a step away. "Do you remember what you were doing before he threw it?"

The woman in purple's expression changed slightly. It wasn't guilt, but the brief, barely concealed stiffness that comes with being hit where it hurts.

"You're making a bet," Emily's voice wasn't loud, but every word was like a nail driven into the ground, unwavering. "A bet that little girl won't make it out of here. A bet that she'll get robbed. A bet that she'll get a beating but won't die. Ten dollars a hand."

The people in line fell silent. The bearded man put the sandwich back on the tray and wiped his fingers on his apron. The man in the baseball cap lowered his head, pulling the brim down even further.

"You were standing behind the long table at the relief station, holding food to share with others, and then you made a bet on an eleven-year-old girl. A bet that she would get beaten up."

Emily spoke slowly, each word lingering in the air for a considerable time. Her fingers were slightly clenched at her sides, not trembling with anger, but with a forceful control—pressing all her emotions into her knuckles, preventing them from leaking into her voice.

"He threw the food to stop the homeless men from staring at her. He slapped her to make people on the street think she got nothing today and was bullied, so it wasn't worth robbing her. You made the bet because you thought it was funny to watch a child get robbed."

She paused for a moment.

"Don't stand here and shut someone who is truly protecting her up with something like, 'You think you're right, don't you?'"

Her lips, pressed into a thin white line, met her purple dress. Her fingers gripped the hem of her apron, knuckles white. The apron's edge was crumpled from her grip, the church emblem on it torn askew. She shifted her gaze from Emily's face, glancing at the bearded man and the baseball cap beside her. Both were looking at the ground.

No one spoke up for her.

Someone in the line muttered something under their breath; the words were indistinct, but the tone wasn't on her side. The old lady pushing the shopping cart turned it around, facing them directly, her grey-blue eyes fixed on the back of the purple dress.

The purple dress loosened its apron. The fabric hung down in wrinkles, the church emblem on it askew. Her lips moved, as if she wanted to say something—a retort, a consolation, or a way to save face.

Emily didn't look away.

The woman in purple closed her mouth. She took a step back, then turned and walked back to the other end of the long table. Her back was ramrod straight, but her steps were faster than before—not the way a winner would walk, but the way someone was leaving.

The bearded man lowered his head and continued dividing the sandwiches, his hands moving even faster than before, as if he were using a toy to cover something. The man in the baseball cap never looked up; the brim of his cap was almost touching his nose.