Hunger Doesn’t Arrive Politely. It Doesn’t Knock Or Ask Permission. It Moves In Slowly, Hollowing Everything Out From The Inside Until Thoughts Get Foggy And Pride Starts To Feel Like Something Only Other People Can Afford. By The Time Emily Parker Pushed Open The Sun-Faded Glass Door Of The Roadside Diner Off Highway 89 In Northern Arizona, She Wasn’t Thinking About How She Looked, Or How Strangers Might Judge The Dirt On Her Jeans Or The Dried Salt Lines On Her Shirt From Days Of Sweat And Heat. She Was Thinking About The Frightening Quiet Of Her Twins, And How Children That Small Were Never Supposed To Be That Quiet.