The streets of the city were grey with winter, a wind slicing through the alleys as if punishing the poor for daring to exist. Faheem trudged along the pavement, his wicker bag slung over one shoulder. Inside, rows of fresh, golden loaves peeked out, filling the air with the maddening aroma of baked sustenance.

But Faheem’s lips were dry, cracked from the chill, and his stomach growled ferociously—a beast within him that he had learned to ignore. He could only taste the bread if he earned it, and earning was a cruel equation: for every two loaves sold, one would be his.

This rule was a pact he had signed with hunger, the kind that gnawed at his bones and yet left him alive, cursed to struggle. The bakery owner—a man with a belly as round as the moon—had laid down the terms with a laugh that smelled of butter. “Sell two loaves, and you’ve earned one,”...