They don’t ask questions. They cheer again. They trust me. Somehow, still, they trust me.
The shelter is in an old church building. Volunteers meet us at the door. They bring out juice boxes and let the boys pick out books and puzzles from a shelf. A woman named Trina hands me a key to a room with four beds and a shared bathroom.
“There’s dinner at 6:30,” she says kindly. “You made it just in time.”
I sit on the edge of the cot while the boys rush to claim the top bunk. The room smells like lemon cleaner. There’s a window. There are sheets.
Micah climbs down and pulls something out of his pocket. “Here, Daddy,” he says. “You can have Dino tonight. You look sad.”
I take the stuffed dinosaur and feel something in my chest shatter and rebuild all at once.
After dinner, the boys fall asleep fast. It’s the first time in weeks they’ve had full bellies and a mattress. I sit by the window, looking out into the dark.
