The look on Fletcher’s dad, Mr. Garrison, was that of a killer, as the splatters of soup ran down his face. Below him laid the busted open can with the letters scattered, and the liquid scurrying across the kitchen floor.

“Fletcher!” screamed Mr. Garrison in a hoarse tone. “What a waste. This was our food for the week! Why can’t you pay attention to what you’re doing? I won’t get paid ‘till next Friday.”

Fletcher, with his head low, quickly kneeled down to pick up the can, and clean up the mess. “I’m really sorry, dad. I won’t do it again. I promise.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, son. Just clean it up, I’ll figure something out” replied Mr. Garrison. Fletcher nodded. The Garrisons were a rather small family. It was just the two of them after Fletcher’s mom left to live with her boss. It’s been three years since then.

The next day, Mr. Garrison put on his crinkled jumpsuit, along with the boots that’s soles were about to fall off, and the reflective vest. Approaching the pickup truck, he noticed a parking ticket on the dashboard. It said, “46.2-1157; Expired inspection sticker. Please replace.” He didn’t notice that it was there last night when he came home from his shift. Disquieted, he crumbled it up and got inside the truck. He opened up the glove compartment, carelessly throwing it in, slamming the hatch with a solid thud. When he arrived at the construction site, he noticed the lot was half empty, and his coworkers packing their belongings.

“Where’s everyone going, w-what’s happening here?” said Mr. Garrison.
Rodney, a friend of his, sighed unconfidently, “The contractor doesn’t seem to think we’re doing a good enough job so they’re hiring someone else. We’re out of luck, Al. That was our work for the month and you know opportunities like these are scarce around this area.” Mr. Garrison knew the situation was hanging in the balance. He got back in his car, rushing down the road to get home.

Meanwhile, Fletcher scanned the cabinets over for a third time, still unsuccessful in finding something to eat. He looked inside the trash can, staring at the wasted alphabet soup.
Tempted to take it back out, he looked around for any company. He thought he was in the clear, so he quickly went to reach for it when a hand grabbed his wrist. It was Mr. Garrison.

“What do you think you are doing?” he lightly murmured.
Fletcher immediately talked back distraught, “I need to eat something. I can’t keep skipping meals.” Mr. Garrison offered a rebuttal, “I don’t work as hard as I do for you to be eating out of a trash can. Didn’t I say I’ll figure something out?”

Fletcher turned away from him, walking towards the screen door of the trailer. Mr. Garrison had always said that to him. It’s as if he was an automated answering machine.

“We can’t keep living like this, I’ma go skim the streets for some compassionate people.” Fletcher opened the door as two peculiar gentlemen greeted him. “Your pops home, kid? We just need to speak with him”.

“Yeah. He’s inside, literally right around the corner,” said Fletcher. He then shoved his way past the men, stuffed his hands in the pocket of his hoodie, and marched off towards the main road with them staring him down.

After what seemed like an endless strip of double yellow lines and asphalt, Fletcher soon arrived at the Marketplace on top of the hill. While strolling past the area the homeless sleep in, he noticed it was unattended. In his mind, he knew it wasn’t right, but he grabbed the paper cup anyway

“This’ll do,” Fletcher said to himself. He walked a couple stores over before passing a sign that read, “Alphabet soup! Starting at $1.79 each, or 2 for $1.” He wasn’t fond of it, but he had to eat something, and that humdrum of a liquid was the only food he could afford, let alone trust. He sat down against the wall near the automatic doors and held out the cup. Each time someone passed he was ignored.

They must assume I’m trying to buy cigarettes or somethin’. But I’m only 13, he thought to himself. As time elapsed, his stomach began to sound like bidders at an auction.

Fletcher threw the cup out into the street, watching it roll away from him. Next, he speed walked into the store. He gandered at the assorted goods. They looked like prizes sitting atop a shelf in a carnival game. They had one thing in common, though: they were all tagged. That ruled out trying to steal them, but he needed something to bring home. Fletcher probed the soup cans in the isle. There were so many types, but he was only used to the alphabet kind. He used to play with letters, rearranging them into words. There were days he assembled welcoming words, and others to give a hint. Today was an ordinary one for him. He didn’t want to fiddle around so he pulled out his pockets from his sweatpants, only to find a button and some lint. Smacking his lips, his desperation got the best of him and he put the cans in his pocket, hoping to go undetected.
On the other hand, Mr. Garrison was still held up by the two gentlemen at the trailer.

“Mr. Garrison, you do know you got a lot of parking tickets you haven’t paid right?” said the two men.
“Yes, I do. I just haven’t had the money for it.” The two men, who were officers, frowned as the wrinkles in their foreheads appeared.
“You haven’t had the money for 7 years, Mr. Garrison.”

“Really? Has it really been that long?” said Mr. Garrison. Fletcher was footsteps away from exiting the mart, before a hand grabbed his wrist again. He assumed it was his father at first, but this time it was a taller guy, with hipsters’ glasses and a nametag large enough to be a billboard. It was the manager.
“And what do you plan on doing with those cans, young man?”
“I-I-I-was gonna pay for it, I-I promise. I swear,” said Fletcher.
“Oh you was gonna pay for it? You can pay for it in my office. Follow me.” Fletcher followed the manger into his office, as he was prompted to sit down. “As protocol, we have to report this to the police department. I’m sure all they’ll do is keep you in holding. but you make yourself comfortable.” Fletcher was covered in sweat. His body temperature grew tropical, and his legs were going numb. When the police came, they transferred the information into their system before taking him to the station. Mr. Garrison, with fines too massive to pay, was taken there as well.

When the police officers arrived at the station with Mr. Garrison, they aggressively uncuffed him, ordering him to sit down in the holding cell. Mr. Garrison, beard scruffed up and cloaked in ash, abruptly and repeatedly bumped his head against the pale, brick wall. He then panned his attention. Within his peripheral vision he noticed his son in the far left corner of the hall. Suddenly jumping up, he squeezed the life out of the copper bars. Fletcher followed. After dramatic sequences ensued, they were both taken into the interrogation room.

“It says here that, with your current income, you live paycheck to paycheck, don’t you?” a man in a simplistic buttoned shirt said. “So, why alphabet soup?”

Fletcher responded in a lighthearted manner, “Why not alphabet soup? It was the cheapest thing in the store, so I thought, it wouldn’t hurt anything.”

The man smiled, “But there are other ways, you know.” Mr. Garrison looked at Fletcher oddly, then the man.

“What did my son do this time?” This wasn’t Fletcher’s first offense. As a matter of fact, he usually gets away with it.
“He tried to steal some soup,” the man said.

“Oh,” said Mr. Garrison. “That’s it? You’re kind of late to the party”
Trying to act surprised, the man went through various procedural questions. Eventually, the questions progressively became ones of his own. Mr. Garrison stood up, aggravated, with this hair frizzled.
“Do not think you are excluded, Mr. Garrison. Based on your current status, we believe foster care is Fletcher’s best interest,” said the man.

“But he’s my son, and I have a right. Nobody can take him away from me,” said Mr. Fletcher. The man chuckled into tears.

“Correct. Nobody but the court. The one in which you will be in on Monday.” When the day came, Mr. Garrison knew what was going to happen. He received the paper that spelled out words he did not want to accept.

“At least he’s not eating alphabet soup anymore,” said Mr. Garrison.