The look on Fletcher’s dad, Mr. Garrison, was that of a disgruntled customer dissatisfied with their service, 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 thе mess. “I’m really sorry, dad. I won’t do it again. I promise.” “Don’t makе 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 with the soles that 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 anxiously, “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 hoped something would suddenly appear if he kept searching. He then looked inside the trash can, staring at the wasted alphabet soup. Tempted to take it back out, he looked around to make sure no one was watching. 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. Distraught, Fletcher immediately answered, “I need to eat something. I can’t keep skipping meals.” Mr. Garrison retorted, “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. He was sick of hearing that—it was like his dad 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 made his way past the men, stuffed his hands in the pocket of his hoodie, and walked off towards the main road.

After what seemed like an endless strip of double yellow lines on the 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 apiece, or 2 for $3.” He wasn’t fond of it, but he had to eat something, and sadly, that humdrum of a liquid was the only food he could afford. 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 something. But I’m only 13, he thought to himself. As time elapsed, Fletcher’s stomach began to sound like bidders at an auction, desperately trying to leave with something in their hands. He couldn’t stand it.

Giving up, 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 spelled out welcoming words and other days when he left hints. 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.

In the meantime, Mr. Garrison was still held up by the two gentlemen at the trailer. “Mr. Garrison, I see you’ve been quite a busy man, am I right? I mean, how much longer are you going to avoid court? Every time we’ve stopped by, it seems we’ve just missed you. Today’s the day,” said the two men. “Yes, I have been busy. I’ve been busy raising my son, working my tail off, and making sure I’m able to put some food in our stomachs. You wouldn’t know anything about that, am I right?” The two men, who were detectives, frowned as the wrinkles in their foreheads appeared. “Maybe we don’t. But Mr. Garrison, you don’t have worry about us. Instead, you should worry about the consequences of your actions. Why don’t you come with us? We’re just going to have a little talk at the station.” “I’ll come with you, but what about my son? If you think you’re going to make me stay the night in one of those cells, leaving Fletcher by himself longer than he needs to be, you’re mistaken,” said Mr. Garrison. The detectives smiled. “We’ll bring him there too, don’t worry. We’ll have an officer stop by to pick him up.”

Fletcher was footsteps away from exiting the supermarket when a hand grabbed his wrist again. At first, he assumed it was his father, 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 notify the police. Do you have a guardian I can get in touch with?” Fletcher was covered in sweat. His body temperature grew tropical, and his legs were going numb. “My dad’s service has been off for a couple weeks now,” said Fletcher. The manager realized Fletcher wasn’t trying to cause a lot of trouble, so he loosened up. “Okay, well the police will get a hold of your father. Since this is your first offense, I won’t press any charges, so you will be able to go home. Keep in mind, though, that if you do it again, it will be on your record for the rest of your life.”

When the police came, they informed Fletcher that his father was taken to the station and is being held there. Fletcher began to worry for his father but trusted that it wasn’t about anything serious. He got into the back of an officer’s cruiser and they headed over.

When the police officer arrived at the station with Fletcher, he directed him to his father’s cell. Mr. Garrison, beard scruffed up and cloaked in ash, abruptly and repeatedly bumped his head against the pale, brick wall. He then noticed Fletcher entering from the far-left corner of the hall. Grateful to see him, he squeezed the life out of the steel bars. Fletcher’s reaction was just as relieved. Finally, 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. Turning to Fletcher, the detective asked, “So why steal alphabet soup?” Fletcher responded in a lighthearted manner, “Why not steal alphabet soup? It was the cheapest thing in the store, so I thought, it wouldn’t hurt anything.” The detective smiled, “But there are other ways, you know.” Mr. Garrison looked at Fletcher, then the detective.“I’m sorry, he did what?” 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 detective said. “Oh,” said Mr. Garrison. “I told him not to steal things that he can’t pay for.” This was far from the truth. Mr. Garrison wasn’t shocked because he set the example for his son, but he was ashamed of it.

The detective went through various procedural questions. Eventually, he worked in some questions to satisfy his own curiosity. Hair frizzled, Mr. Garrison stood up, aggravated.

“Don’t think you are done, Mr. Garrison. You’ve skipped court on numerous occasions, and your current living situation is unfit to support a child. You have to be held accountable at some point. We believe foster care is in Fletcher’s best interest,” said the detective. “But he’s my son, and I have a right to take care of him. Nobody can take him away from me,” said Mr. Garrison. “Correct. Nobody but the court. The one in which you will be in on next Monday;” the man chuckled into tears. “It is up to the court to decide what happens to Fletcher. But be prepared for what could happen. Besides, this can be a temporary thing, especially if you commit to changing your lifestyle”.
Mr. Garrison assumed the worst, but knew he needed to be the change in his son’s life and that he wouldn’t be able to do it alone. The officer escorted Fletcher back to the cruiser so he could take them home.

“At least he wouldn’t have to eat alphabet soup anymore,” said Mr. Garrison to the detective, as he turned and walked away.