Page 88 of Not How I Saw That Going

Dad shakes his head. “No. This is the future.”

I look up, eyeing him skeptically. Maybe he’s getting closer to retirement than I thought.

“Do you know how many people in the U.S. are homeless?” he asks.

Random.

“I don’t know the exact number, but I’m assuming it’s significant.”

“Over half a million,” he says, an air of excitement building in his eyes.

“Okay?” I’m not sure what to do with his sudden interest in facts.

“This,” he points back to the model, “is a small-scale effort to decrease that number.”

I glance from him to the model, then back at him. But I’m still lost. “Is it an emergency shelter of some kind? Low-income housing?”

“Better.” Dad smiles, a grin so big I would have been scared to see it as a teenager. “It’s free housing.”

“Free?” I stare at the model, mentally trying to calculate what something like this would cost. Easily over thirty million. “How?”

“We call them micro-apartments. They are single-room apartments with all the necessities. In the center will be the laundromat, mail room, and shared living space. Each group of buildings will be a neighborhood, and residents will have requirements to meet if they want to live here. They must obtain a job, which we will have government representatives set up to help with, and they must also take care of their space and volunteer in their community. There will be no drugs or alcohol permitted inside the property. Once the residents have established themselves, we will help them upgrade to low-income housing.”

Thoughts and ideas swirl through my head at lightning speed. It’s not a free pass for any random person to take advantage of. It’s a starting place for those with nothing. A place to call their own, a place to tend to and take care of, and a place to provide them with the opportunities they would never receive elsewhere. A chance for the life each individual deserves.

“We will also have a few larger apartments for families.” Dad points to a section in the first building where the rooms are double the size of the others.

“This is… amazing.” I blink, still studying the model. “How did you come up with this?”

Dad doesn’t smile—I guess we have that in common—but I can see the light in his eyes as he looks over the model. “This is something your mom and I have dreamed about for the last few years. When you went off to the war, we realized how blessed we were, yet we weren’t doing anything to give back to the country and community that gave us so much. So, after moving some things around and selling a few assets, we finally came up with the money to fund the build completely.”

There’s so much to take in, I’m not sure where to start. They paid for this out of their own pockets?

“You inspired us, son.” Dad pats my back, and it knocks something loose in my heart. A chip I’ve carried there for years.

No. There’s no way I inspired something this important.

“I know it won’t make a dent in the troubles our country faces, but maybe someday that will change.”

My eyes revolt against me, and I attempt to fight the tears off.

“I’d like you to work with me on this project, if you’re willing,” Dad says. Unlike the other times he’s asked—or rather, demanded—something of me, I can feel the genuine concern he has for my response.

The edges of my father’s face begin to blur in my vision. The rebel forces are winning.

How can I selfishly jump right back to the business I’ve been avoiding for years? I don’t deserve this opportunity. I didn’t earn the right to insert myself into their humanitarian mission.

“I’ll have to think about it,” I blurt, and before the enemy can fully claim me, I bolt out of the office.

I drive to the fire station, even though I’m not on duty. I need to do something with my hands, and Roxy’s truck has been acting up.

But not even the mundane rhythm of maintenance can get me out of my thoughts.

My parents want to provide homes for over one hundred people. Free of charge. And I’ve been a stuck-up jerk, assuming everything they did was to get money and attention. This whole time, I’ve been fighting a battle I should have been participating in. What does that make me?

A hypocrite.

I slide out from under the truck and dust off my pants. I need more tools.