It's been almost five years, and Wolfgang has learned to never turn down food. They never know if they're going to eat tomorrow. They follow.
Even seated and slouching partially, Wolfgang is still very tall, all long coltish limbs with bony wrists. Their hair hangs in front of their face, masking it somewhat, turned towards the flimsy plastic table; they're embarrassed and grateful, and not sure what to say. They hope he's not a Mormon. Four months stateside and Wolfgang has found that a lot of American charity comes at the price of proselytizing.
“Thank you,” Wolfgang manages at length. Their voice is really quiet.