Mary’s Center of Hope, never more grateful his volunteer shift was almost over. Outside the storefront windows, snowflakes drifted, blanketing the street with a peaceful mantle of beauty that hid the pock marks and smells of a cobblestone street littered with garbage, oil, and manure. He nodded at several rag-tag diners just leaving, his smile as deceptive as the snow, concealing a malaise that settled like the ice crystals outside—bitter and cold. His eyes flitted to the clock over the now-deserted serving line, where Miss Clara was stacking fresh plates for tomorrow’s lunch. Almost seven—closing time, thank God. He bobbled the dishrag, wishing he could wipe his melancholy away as easily as the debris and dirty dishes from the tables. His gaze shifted to where Marcy coddled and cooed with a baby at the kitchen table while its mother and two small siblings finished up their free meal in the dining room, and his lips tipped in a faint smile. The woman was downright obsessed with babies and family, yet another reason for Patrick’s glum mood.
