Chapter 16 #2
“What was it like?” I asked, watching trees blur past. “The first time you went to The Hearth.”
He exhaled slowly. “Humbling,” he said. “I was… twenty. Angry at the world. Still trying to figure out what to do with my life after my parents died, and Tom’s mom dragged us there.”
“Tom as in Sheriff Tom?” I asked.
“The very same. Back then he was a rookie deputy. Thought he knew everything.” His mouth quirked faintly. “His mom made us put on Santa hats and hand out bags of socks and thermal shirts. I thought I was doing the world a favor showing up.”
“What changed?” I asked softly.
“I realized I could have been on the other side of the table,” he said simply. “One wrong turn. One bad break. If Dad hadn’t had life insurance, if Mom hadn’t had friends… I don’t know where I’d have landed.”
I swallowed hard. That hit too close to home.
I thought of the first night I’d been taken from my birth parents’ apartment, the way the social worker’s face had looked sad and tired and unsurprised.
I thought of every couch I’d slept on, every new bedroom that smelled wrong.
I had never been on the street, not really.
Never gone more than a day without a meal.
But that was luck. Mrs. Davis. A handful of good people.
It could’ve gone another way.
The ache in my chest sharpened. I stared out the window at a cluster of houses, Christmas lights still blinking cheerfully on their eaves. “I want to help,” I said quietly. “I want to be one of the good people.”
Graeme’s fingers squeezed my thigh, solid and grounding. “You already are, Rudy.”
My throat burned. I pretended to cough and looked back out the window, blinking away the sting.
The Hearth sat on a side street in Maplewood, housed in a low brick building with big front windows and a faded mural of hands holding a flame.
The A in Hearth was painted as a stylized heart.
Warm light spilled out onto the snow. A steady stream of people came and went—some bundled in layers, some in thin jackets that weren’t nearly enough for the weather.
Graeme parked around back in the volunteers’ lot. As soon as we stepped out of the truck, the cold bit at my cheeks and nose. The air smelled like exhaust, frying onions, and something sweet—maybe cinnamon.
Inside, the center buzzed with organized chaos.
Coats were piled on a rack by the door. Volunteers moved between tables, carrying trays and stacks of paper cups.
The big hall was filled with long folding tables covered in red plastic cloths.
Garlands hung along the walls. A fake tree stood in the corner, its lights blinking unevenly.
The sound hit me first—voices overlapping, kids laughing, someone coughing, a radio playing Christmas songs from a speaker near the front. It pressed against me in a way that felt both alive and overwhelming.
Graeme slipped his hand into mine and gave a small squeeze. “Breathe,” he murmured. “In through your nose, out through your mouth.”
I nodded, matching my breath to his for a moment.
A woman in a knit beanie and a “VOLUNTEER COORDINATOR” lanyard spotted us and came over, smiling wide.
“Graeme!” she said, wiping her hands on her apron before pulling him into a quick hug. “You’re here. I was starting to worry the snow ate you.”
“Morning, Maribel,” he said, hugging her back. “Wouldn’t miss it. This is Rudy.”
Her attention shifted to me, warm and unapologetically direct. “Hi, Rudy. First time?”
“Yeah,” I said, suddenly very aware of my own breath in this big room. “I, uh, wanted to help.”
“Well, we’re thrilled to have you,” she said. “You with Graeme, you’re in good hands. He’s practically furniture here.”
He huffed. “That’s one way to show appreciation.”
She laughed, then handed us each an apron, a name tag and a pair of disposable gloves. “We’re serving hot lunch until two. Then we switch over to distributing care kits. Graeme, you okay taking the serving line for the first shift?”
“Absolutely,” he said.
“What about me?” I asked, tying my apron clumsily behind my back.
“You can partner with him,” Maribel said. “He’ll show you the ropes. If it gets to be too much, we can switch you to the kitchen or to packing bags in the back. Some people prefer being behind the scenes.”
I nodded. “Okay. Thank you.”
She squeezed my arm once, a quick, grounding touch, then was gone, swallowed up by the movement of the room.
Graeme adjusted the knot of my apron, fingers brushing my lower back. “How are we doing?” he asked softly.
“I’m okay,” I said honestly. “A little… whoa.” I made a vague gesture at the room. “But okay.”
“If that changes, you tell me,” he said quietly, eyes steady on mine. “No toughing it out to keep me happy. Deal?”
I wanted to say yes. The words stuck in my throat. I nodded instead.
He gave me a look that said he knew that wasn’t the same thing as a verbal deal, but he let it go. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s feed some people.”
We took our places behind the line of metal trays kept warm over burners. The smell made my stomach clench in a way that wasn’t hunger exactly—turkey stew, fresh bread, roasted vegetables, something apple-spiced. Comfort, basically, ladled into bowls.
Graeme handed me a ladle and showed me how big to make each portion. “You can greet people if you want,” he said. “Or just smile. Both matter.”
The first person in line was an older man with a thick gray beard and a knitted hat pulled low. His coat was worn but buttoned tight. His gloves didn’t match. He held his tray carefully, like he was afraid to drop it.
“Good morning,” Graeme said. “Merry Christmas.”
“Morning,” the man replied. His voice was gravelly. “Yesterday was Christmas.”
“We figure people deserve more than one day,” I blurted before my brain could stop my mouth.
The man blinked at me. Then, surprisingly, he chuckled. “Can’t argue with that, kid.” He tilted his tray. “Don’t be shy with that ladle.”
I smiled—and my hands remembered how to move. “You got it.”
Person after person stepped up. A woman with two little kids, their eyes huge and tired.
A teenager with chipped black nail polish and a rainbow beanie who refused to meet my gaze when I said hello, but muttered a quiet “thanks” when I handed them their bowl.
A man in a wheelchair. A woman wearing four scarves and no hat.
Some people smelled like soap and laundry detergent. Others like cigarettes or damp wool. One man had a scent that made my brain flash back to my birth father’s unwashed shirts, and my throat closed for a second. I swallowed it down and kept serving.
We worked steadily. At some point, Maribel put on a playlist of upbeat holiday songs. “Feliz Navidad” played, then “All I Want for Christmas Is You.” A few kids danced near the back. Someone clapped along.
I lost track of time, measuring the day in ladles and paper cups and thank-yous. My shoulders started to ache. My feet complained. My brain hummed with a low buzz from the noise.
But there was something… right about it. This was Christmas too—the version people didn’t post on Instagram. Lines and gratitude and tired faces lighting up at the taste of hot food.
I thought of Mrs. Davis, the way she’d kept a pot of soup on the stove whenever the weather dropped, “in case someone needs a bowl,” she’d always say. Neighborhood kids. Parents who were struggling. A social worker who didn’t have time to eat between appointments.
She would’ve loved this place, I thought. She would’ve had me here from the minute I turned sixteen.
The thought stayed with me for a while.
We took a short break around one-thirty. Graeme gently steered me into the kitchen, where it was quieter. Someone had set up a table with coffee and sandwiches for volunteers. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. The tile floor was streaked with melted snow.
“You must be thirsty by now,” Graeme said, handing me a bottle of water.
I took it automatically, only realizing then how dry my mouth felt. “Thanks.”
He watched me for a moment, not crowding, just paying attention. “How are you doing?” he asked softly. “Not the polite answer. The real one.”
“Oh.” I let the question settle. Checked in with my body. My mind. The slight tremor in my hands. The way the world felt a tiny bit louder than it should. “I’m… okay,” I said slowly. “Tired. A little floaty. But I want to stay.”
His gaze warmed, something approving and protective all at once. “That’s an honest answer,” he said. “Good.”
Pride flickered in my chest. “They’re still lining up,” I said. “I don’t want to leave when there’s so many people.”
“We’re not leaving yet,” he assured me. “We’ll switch to handing out kits soon. Different rhythm. If it gets too much, you tell me. That’s not quitting. That’s taking care of yourself so you can keep helping next time.”
I nodded, chewing on my thumbnail before I remembered that was a habit I was trying to break. I folded my arms instead.
He reached out and tugged my hand gently away from my mouth. “Hey,” he said softly. “You’re doing really well, Rudy. I’m proud of you.”
The words landed like a warm weight in my chest. I swallowed around them. “Thank you,” I said, voice small.
“Finish your sandwich,” he said. “Then we’ll go find Maribel.”
The afternoon was for “Warm Winter Kits.” That’s what the sign said in the hallway, written in bright letters and surrounded by hand-drawn snowflakes.
We stood behind a long table near the back of the hall, where the crowd thinned a bit. Each kit was a reusable tote filled with socks, gloves, a knit hat, hand warmers, a travel-size bottle of lotion, and a pack of tissues. A small card was tucked inside: You matter. You are not forgotten.
I picked one up and ran my fingers over the words.
“Tom’s mom wrote that,” Graeme murmured near my ear. “She passed a few years back, but Maribel prints them every year. Tradition.”
My throat got tight again. “She sounds like she was… fierce.”
“She was,” he said. “She’d have adopted the whole town if she could.”