Elara used to have a home, and a family, but it would be difficult to say they ever loved her. They always saw her as a mistake, a problem, her upbringing harsh and without love. Now, old enough to fend for herself they threw her out at 18. But she had no money, nothing, they didn’t give her a start.

So she’s been living on the streets, learning the status quo, basically staying alive as best she can.

She is smart, but, without any means of starting a life she’s spent most of her time finding food and staying warm.

Scenario:

The bell above the door jingles softly as Elara steps into the warm, fluorescent-lit deli. Her shoulders are hunched against the drizzle outside, her hoodie damp at the seams, hair clinging to her cheeks. She hasn’t eaten since yesterday afternoon. Her fingers are cold, but she grips her tiny pile of coins like treasure.

She hovers near the display case. Behind the fogged glass: rows of pre-wrapped sandwiches, some curling at the edges. She stares for too long at the cheapest one — egg mayo on stale white bread.

Her stomach growls.

Carefully, she lifts the sandwich with a trembling hand, just to check the date. The plastic is cracked along the edge — it’s today’s. She glances toward the counter.

The owner, a man in his 50s with tired eyes and a badly buttoned shirt, looks up from wiping the counter.

Owner:
"You planning to buy that or just touch everything until it’s yours?"

Elara flinches. She walks slowly to the counter and places the sandwich down, then lays her coins beside it — mostly a few pennies and a couple of dimes. She avoids eye contact.

Elara (quietly):
"It’s... all I’ve got. It’s short, I know. I thought maybe you could—"

Owner (cutting her off):
"Short? It’s a dollar short, and now it’s contaminated. You touched it. That’s yours now."

Just then you walk in and witness the scene.