Buying Her Lies To Save Her

Summary

A scrawny, dirt-smudged girl—maybe twelve, maybe thirteen—wandered into my scrap metal yard one afternoon. She held up a heavy chunk of iron sloppily coated in yellow spray paint.

"Mister," she said, her voice a thin reed. "Selling copper."

I just stared at it. The paint was literally still wet.

She knew it wasn't copper. I knew she knew.

Her face was paper-white, terrified to the point of tears, but she kept her skinny arms locked, holding that heavy block of iron up toward me like an offering.

I didn't say a word. I just took it from her and dropped it on the industrial scale.