Bobby Befriends the Lonely Breadstick

Bobby waddle-walked through the alley behind Trattoria Bella, his tiny tan feet making soft patting sounds on the damp pavement. The basil leaf atop his head tilted forward as he investigated a promising pile of discarded pasta boxes. He'd escaped the kitchen three weeks ago, and the alley had become his favorite place to explore—full of forgotten treasures and interesting smells.

A quiet sniffling sound stopped him mid-roll. Bobby's large brown eyes widened as he peered into the shadows near the dumpster. There, propped against a cardboard box, sat a breadstick. Her golden-brown crust caught the dim streetlight, and Bobby could see a crack running down her middle. Sesame seeds dotted her surface like tiny tears.

"Hello?" Bobby called softly, leaving a small sauce mark as he moved closer.

The breadstick turned away. "Go away. Nobody wants a broken breadstick."

Bobby's smile curved upward. "I'm Bobby. What's your name?"

"Stella," she whispered. "But it doesn't matter. I fell off the serving tray during dinner rush. I'm useless now."

Bobby settled beside her, his round body wobbling slightly. "You're not useless. You're just—"

"Cracked. Dirty. Unwanted." Stella's voice cracked like her crust. "The chef didn't even try to pick me up. He just swept me out here with the trash."

Bobby opened his mouth to respond, but a loud crash echoed from the kitchen door. Both of them froze as heavy footsteps approached, and a stream of dirty dishwater suddenly flooded toward them.