As they’d eaten, people had become more animated and talkative and some had wanted to stay and talk to Mac. The very last few stragglers had been the most reluctant to leave. I guess I couldn’t blame them. This wasn’t the fanciest place in the world but at least it was warm and dry and inside. Mac said goodbye to the last man, closed the door and bolted it shut. I continued to gather up bowls and cups, piling them up on a tray. I put two more bowls on the tray. It was now as full as I dared to carry. I hefted it up and carted it away, pushing through the swinging door and into the kitchen. It smelled better back here—smells of hot water and cooking odours. Out in the dining room the men were gone but their smell lingered on. Through the course of the evening, the smell of the food had been replaced by a foul combination of dirt and sweat and urine that stung my nostrils. It was so strong that it was more a taste than a smell. On my first trip into the kitchen I’d been shocked to find out that nobody else was in the back helping.
