One Nice Thing

The fact that no one else wants it doesn’t matter: whenever they get it, Izzy Hands gets the licorice.

Fang mimes elaborate nausea as he hands over the small sack among the loot, half eaten by a sailor they’ve probably killed, but Izzy doesn’t care.

It’s his. He lets himself eat a piece every night until it’s gone. He lets himself anticipate it all day, and he sucks on it as he falls asleep at night. It’s something good, alone, in the dark, just for him.