The next morning, I walked—slow, limping—to the soup kitchen on Keller Street.
The room was full: weary mothers, men in worn jackets, people the world forgot. I sat in the back, cheeks burning with shame.
A man smelling faintly of smoke and motor oil slid half his sandwich toward 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.
