He appeared slowly from behind one of the pillars, as if deciding whether I was a threat.
“Their names…” he whispered. “Grace and Sam. Their mom died last winter. Shelters are full. I—I can’t find work. I’m doing my best.”
The children whimpered softly against him.
I pulled off my gloves and slipped them onto their tiny hands, my fingers burning in the cold. “You’re not staying here tonight,” I said firmly.
That night, I rented them a hotel room three blocks away. I bought hot soup, clean clothes, warm coats, and extra blankets. The children ate until exhaustion pulled them under, their cheeks finally turning pink in the heat of the room.
The man watched them with a mixture of relief and disbelief.
“My name is Evan,” he said quietly.
“Clara,” I replied. “Merry Christmas, Evan.”
