Chili. Again. "Do you serve the same thing every week?" Genna asked, lugging the big pot to the serving counter without nearly falling this time. Her apron, covering her dark skinny jeans and black fitted t-shirt, remained mostly white today, only a few specks of tomato sauce staining it. "Usually," the coordinator said. "We serve what we can get, and well, the way the economy is, that's not much. People aren't banging down our doors with donations, nor is there a line of volunteers anxious to help." She had noticed, her first week, that it was the same few people working every day. The others kept to themselves, not nearly as friendly as the coordinator. She had a sneaking suspicion they also weren't there from the kindness of their heart. The night passed quickly as she ladled out the chili, filling the small Styrofoam cups nearly to the brim this time before plopping it on a tray and passing it down the line. People strode past to collect their dinner, some she recognized from the week before, a few even striking up friendly conversation as they went.
