The Soup Kitchen
The next morning, I walked—slow and limping—to the soup kitchen on Keller Street.
The room was full: tired mothers, men in torn jackets, the forgotten and the overlooked. I sat in the back, cheeks burning with shame.
A man smelling faintly of smoke and motor oil slid half his sandwich across to me.
“No shame here,” he said. “We all got stories.”
His name was Marvin. Once a mechanic. Back gave out, bills piled up, life unraveled.
He told me a group had helped him. A biker club called The Guardians.
I thought he was joking.
