Free Who Is My Shelter? by Neta Jackson

to complete their high school education.
    I continued to review the regular weekly activities we had scheduled: Estelle’s sewing class this afternoon, still working on their apron project. The ESL class on Tuesday, which was about to lose its volunteer teacher because Tina, our Puerto Rican resident who spoke both Spanish and English fluently, didn’t feel qualified to teach the formal written stuff. Cooking and nutrition on Thursday, Estelle again, no worries there. Jodi Baxter’s typing class on Saturday.
    Jotting a note to myself about calling some local schools that trained ESL teachers, I turned my attention to the list of new activities I wanted to add here at Manna House. “One at a time, Gabby, one at a time ,” Mabel had warned me. “We’ve got to make budget, remember?”
    I grinned at the item at the top of my “proposed” list: a “Fall Getaway” weekend for some of the residents who’d never been out of the city, to see the fall colors and enjoy a bit of nature. But it was already October! If that was going to happen, I needed to get it on the calendar pronto. Maybe the last weekend of this month?
    Philip still hadn’t called by the time I gathered up my papers and headed for staff meeting at ten. I was tempted to phone and bug him about calling his doctor but talked myself out of it. Wasn’t I always running ahead of God and trying to make things happen? Okay, I was even going to turn off my cell phone during the meeting.
    I tried to catch Estelle after the staff meeting to find out what happened when Mr. Bentley went down to the police station yesterday, but she zipped out of the room without so much as a nod in my direction. What was she in such a hurry about?
    But there was one new voice mail when I turned my cell phone back on. “Gabby, it’s Philip. I’ve got a two o’clock with Dr. Gordon. Can you pick me up at one?”
    One o’clock? Why did he need a whole hour to get to his doctor? Whatever . I sent a text back to him—“OK 1:00”—and made a detour to Mabel’s office to tell her I needed a couple hours for a doctor’s appointment.
    I pulled into the Visitor Parking space outside Richmond Towers right at one. Philip was already downstairs in the lobby waiting for me. He didn’t say much as he lowered himself gingerly into the front passenger seat of my Subaru, just “Thanks for the ride. Here’s the address.” He handed me a slip of paper. “Take Lake Shore Drive to the Randolph Street exit and I can direct you from there.”
    Randolph Street? Philip’s office was in the AON Center on East Randolph right downtown. Was his doctor in the same building?
    Turned out he wasn’t, but the building was right around the corner on North Michigan Avenue. I let Philip out as close as I could to the front door of the office building while I looked for a parking garage. After circling the block, I ended up in the AON Center parking garage after all and walked to the building where I’d let him out.
    The receptionist in Dr. Gordon’s office said Philip was already in with the doctor, so I leafed through a copy of Money magazine. The other options weren’t much better. Business Week . . . Harvard Business Review . . . Forbes . . . Good grief. Didn’t anybody besides CEOs come to this doctor? “Excuse me.” I waggled a hand at the receptionist. “Do you have Good Housekeeping or National Geographic or something?”
    â€œSorry,” she said. “Those are the doctor’s personal subscriptions. We just put out the old copies.”
    Humph. I should’ve brought a book .
    Philip came out half an hour later, looking a bit ashen. “Doctor wants me to get a CAT scan of my midsection,” he said as we rode the elevator down. “I think I can get it done at Weiss Memorial, but . . .” He swore under his breath. “Blast that Fagan. I