They shared a plate of fresh oranges between them, the sweet, sticky juice providing the fuel to rethink of the ghosts of their past.
The very first meal they had ever shared had been a heel of hard bread, chewed silently beneath the moldy, rotting wood of the slave pens where they had been forced to eat, shit, and sleep every night. Many of those crusts were ones they had stolen, eaten in the pitch black of the night. You chewed without making a sound in those pens; if the desperate bastards in the cages nearby caught wind of food, they would either rat you out to the guards for a scrap of favor, or tear you apart to get a piece themselves.
Sometimes both.
