Free Leah's Triplet Mates by Cara Adams

like this as well.
    The people formed a long line, encouraging the women with children to go first. Everyone took a plate from the stack on the end of the serving counter and then filed past the kitchen helpers, who gave everyone scoops of a thick meaty stew, savory rice, and a piece of bread.
    There was hot coffee for the adults to drink and a small cup of milk for each child.
    Once everyone had been served and was seated, all the volunteers also took a plate of food and joined the guests at the tables. Hardy wondered if the food ever ran out. He supposed the servers would keep watch on how many people arrived and give smaller portions if the crowd was too big or the donated food not adequate. He suddenly realized what a huge venture this was. The homeless people came in expectation of a meal. But what if none of the rich people had given any food or money that day? What would happen? He knew Leah’s family was invested in the lives of the people they helped. How would they manage if one day there was no food? It was a huge responsibility.
    Dammit. I’ll have to follow up on those people Leah’s mom was going to ask to provide food. I don’t even know these people, and I’ve never been on the streets or starving, but I do want to help them. I wonder if some of them could be helped to find work? If they had supported accommodation, even a minimum wage job might help direct them to a better future.
    The man sitting next to Hardy asked, “What’s your opinion of climate change?”
    Of all the opening sentences Hardy might have expected from a homeless person, that wasn’t on the list, although he supposed the weather would impact their lives quite a lot.
    “I think some of the politicians are using it as a football to kick around instead of investigating it thoroughly,” he replied, giving an honest answer.
    In moments, the entire table was involved in a surprisingly knowledgeable conversation. Hardy sat back. These people weren’t mentally incompetent or drug or alcohol-affected idiots. They were all as sober as anyone else and engaged in a completely serious conversation. As he sat and mostly listened, asking a few rare questions, he came to learn more about them. One old man, Chuck, was a Vietnam veteran who hated loud noises and had driven a truck on long-distance routes for years. Another man, Gene, had lost his job after the management had learned he’d been involved in a radical political group as a young man.
    “I grew out of that nonsense twenty years ago, but no one wants to give me a chance now,” he mourned.
    Each one had a story. Some had been lazy, others stupid, but most were just unlucky. When something in their lives had gone wrong, they’d slid into homelessness and now couldn’t find their way out. One thing all of them said was that if it hadn’t been for this program they’d be dead or in jail for sure.
    “What is the one thing you’d wish for now, above everything else?” he asked, wondering if they’d say housing or employment.
    “To be acknowledged as a person, as me, as Chuck. Not just to be disregarded as a homeless bum pushing a shopping cart.”
     
    * * * *
     
    Saxon had enjoyed talking to the people at his table. They’d begun with a discussion about baseball but moved quite quickly from there to whether or not their soldiers should be sent overseas in peacekeeping roles. He’d had to scramble to keep his brain up with the speed of the conversation. Some of the people at his table were not just smart but damn good debaters as well.
    At one thirty, people started leaving, and by two, he was handed the heavy broom again and set to sweeping the floor. Not that there was much mess. Some crumbs from the bread, a damp patch where some coffee had been spilled, but not a lot to clean up. These people had been hungry, and the food went in their mouths, not on the floor.
    After that, the tables were washed down, the counter cleaned, and armloads of pots and plates tidied away.
    He