Morg tossed the onion back onto the cart. It was too small and too mushy. He turned to leave.
“You don’t want my onions boy? They’re the finest around,” the merchant declared, staring daggers down his hawkish nose.
Morg looked at the merchant and shook his head. “These onions are terrible. I’d be sick if I ate one.”
The man opened his mouth again, but Morg was already leaving. The boy’s stomach was grumbling, but it wouldn’t do to fill it with spoiled food. He counted his remaining coins. Hardly enough for an onion even if it had been edible.