Part VII begins with Jen­nie press­ing her cold face to the glossy pane of a gro­cery win­dow, where fruits from warm shores sit in tempt­ing dis­ar­ray. The label “maymeys from Cuba” catch­es her attention—not for what it promis­es in fla­vor, but for what it rep­re­sents: opu­lence unreach­able. Around her, Chicago’s win­ter grips the streets with icy fin­gers, while Jennie’s own stom­ach tight­ens in qui­et revolt. The glass is not just a phys­i­cal bar­ri­er; it’s a sym­bol of what she can­not cross. Inside, trop­i­cal del­i­ca­cies glow under arti­fi­cial light. Out­side, Jen­nie fights both hunger and humil­i­a­tion, her dig­ni­ty crack­ing in the chill.

Des­per­a­tion pro­pels her for­ward. Though her boots clack con­fi­dent­ly on the side­walks, her resolve weak­ens with every store­front passed. Attempts to inquire about work are returned with patron­iz­ing stares or dis­mis­sive nods. The city, for all its motion and ener­gy, offers lit­tle com­pas­sion. Its heart­beat is com­merce, not care. Jen­nie, once proud and per­sis­tent, now mea­sures worth in scraps. Each breath draws less warmth, and with every gust of wind, the idea of defeat whis­pers loud­er in her ears. Even her reflec­tion in shop win­dows seems thin­ner than yes­ter­day, as though her very out­line were being erased.

She steps into a depart­ment store, its gro­cery floor buzzing with the mur­mur of shop­pers decid­ing between truf­fles and fine sausages. Jen­nie does­n’t belong, yet she glides among the pol­ished coun­ters with an air she doesn’t feel. She sam­ples cheese here, nib­bles sala­mi there, always paus­ing just long enough to pre­tend she’s weigh­ing a pur­chase. These bits of indul­gence aren’t just food; they are defi­ance, brief moments where she tricks hunger and restores a shred of pow­er. Still, the ruse can’t last for­ev­er. As her con­fi­dence wavers, so does her tim­ing. The work­ers begin to notice her pat­tern, their glances sharp­er now.

Drawn by the but­tery scent of fresh­ly baked goods, she approach­es the Scot­tish bak­ery. The warmth is almost a betrayal—it invites, but it can­not give. Her fin­gers hov­er too long over a tray of scones. One moment of weak­ness, one impul­sive grasp, and she’s caught. The shame is swift and pub­lic. Jen­nie stam­mers apolo­gies she can’t fin­ish. Her knees buck­le, and the mar­ble floor rush­es up to meet her. A small crowd gath­ers, but no one tru­ly sees her. They see the act, not the hunger that drove it.

As she lies semi-con­scious, a whis­per escapes her lips—“maymeys from Cuba.” A man near­by bends clos­er, mis­un­der­stand­ing the phrase as a self-intro­duc­tion: “Mamie from Cuba.” The mis­take is odd­ly fit­ting. In a city that nev­er knew her, Jen­nie becomes some­one else entire­ly in the space of a breath. This moment, so trag­ic in its irony, clos­es the dis­tance between need and absur­di­ty. Her iden­ti­ty is blurred, not just by the mis­hear­ing, but by society’s fail­ure to care enough to lis­ten prop­er­ly in the first place.

The sto­ry, rich in sen­so­ry detail, holds more than just a char­ac­ter sketch. It con­fronts the sharp con­trast between abun­dance and des­per­a­tion, between those who fill bas­kets and those who fake inter­est just to nib­ble. Jen­nie doesn’t steal because she’s dis­hon­est; she does so because hunger doesn’t ask for per­mis­sion. And while she may nev­er taste a maymey, its pres­ence in the win­dow served as both tor­ment and dream. The fruit’s exot­ic allure speaks not only to class dis­par­i­ty but also to the dis­tance between priv­i­lege and need.

In mod­ern terms, this sto­ry res­onates with ongo­ing debates around food inse­cu­ri­ty and eco­nom­ic injus­tice. Mil­lions today still nav­i­gate sim­i­lar bar­ri­ers, whether through ris­ing gro­cery prices or invis­i­ble social judg­ments that frame the hun­gry as lazy or unde­serv­ing. Jennie’s tale is not con­fined to her era; it’s a mir­ror for any time where empa­thy is in short sup­ply. The most haunt­ing part of her jour­ney isn’t the theft or collapse—it’s how eas­i­ly she’s mis­tak­en for some­thing she’s not, sim­ply because no one paus­es to tru­ly know her. And in that mis­recog­ni­tion lies the story’s most endur­ing pain.