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I tried again, holding the key longer this time, whispering promises I couldn't keep. "Just get me through this week. I'll get you an oil change. New spark plugs. Whatever you need."

The engine shuddered to life with a sound like broken glass in a blender. Black smoke poured from the exhaust, thick enough to obscure the diner in my rearview mirror. The dashboard lit up like a discount Christmas tree—check engine, oil pressure, temperature gauge already climbing toward red.

But it was running. That was all that mattered right now.

I'd inherited this 1995 Chevy conversion van from Mom three years ago, along with her medical debt and a box of things I couldn't bear to throw away.

She'd bought it used from a church group, back when she still had hopes of taking me camping, showing me the world beyond Ironridge.

We'd made it as far as the state park twice before the transmission started slipping and the dream quietly died.

The paint had been blue once—bright and hopeful like Mom before the illness.

Now it was the color of old storms, with rust spreading from the wheel wells like something infectious.

The driver's seat had a spring that poked through if you sat wrong.

The passenger window wouldn't roll up the last two inches.

The sliding door required a specific combination of lift and pull that I'd mastered but couldn't teach anyone else.

Under the pillow, hidden like contraband, lived the things I couldn't explain to anyone.

A coloring book of fairy tales, half-filled with careful work inside the lines.

Mr. Friendly, the teddy bear with one ear longer than the other, wearing a vest Mom had sewn from old curtains.

A bottle of bubble bath shaped like a mermaid that I'd never opened because it felt too precious to use.

These were the things that made no sense for a twenty-two-year-old woman to own. But late at night, when the world pressed too close and the numbers wouldn't stop adding up to disaster, I'd hold Mr. Friendly and remember being small enough to believe in happy endings.

The van lurched as I shifted into drive, a new grinding sound joining the symphony of mechanical distress. I eased onto the empty street, hands tight on the wheel, listening for the death rattle that would leave me stranded.

I passed the library where I'd spent countless hours as a kid, now closed for "renovations" that had stretched on for two years.

The elementary school where Mom had worked as a lunch lady before she got too sick.

The clinic where they'd been kind about payment plans until there was nothing left to plan around.

A red light caught me at Main and Third. The engine idled rough, threatening to stall. I kept my foot on the gas, riding the brake, whispering prayers to whoever might be listening.

"Please. Just keep running. Get me to the shelter. I'll figure out the rest tomorrow."

Tomorrow. Always tomorrow. Tomorrow I'd look for a new job. Tomorrow I'd find a way to make the money stretch. Tomorrow I'd be stronger, smarter, capable of solving problems that tonight felt like mountains.

T he shelter squatted on Maple Street, brick walls darkened by years of Colorado weather, stained glass windows caged in security mesh that threw checkered shadows across the sidewalk.

I parked under the streetlight that actually worked, listening to my engine tick and cool like a dying clock.

Through the cracked windshield, I could see the faded banner stretched across the entrance: "Ironridge Community Shelter - Everyone Welcome. "

My volunteer badge waited in the glove compartment, buried under expired insurance cards. The plastic was cracked along one edge, my photo from three years ago showing someone who still believed in fresh starts. I clipped it to my shirt and headed for the door, grabbing Mr. Friendly on the way.

The smell hit first—industrial disinfectant fighting a losing battle against unwashed bodies and donated clothes.

Then came the sounds: muted conversations, a baby crying somewhere in the back, the ancient coffee maker gurgling its endless supply of bitter comfort.

These sensory markers had become my second home, more familiar than my own apartment.

"Cleo!" Elena looked up from the donation table, her gray hair escaping from its usual bun. "Good to see you! How was the diner?"

"Good," I said, forcing a fragile smile. No need to burden Elena with my problems when she spent sixteen hours a day managing everyone else's. "Figured I'd help with bedtime routines."

She smiled, the kind that created deep lines around her eyes. "The kids will be thrilled. Toby has been asking for 'the story lady' all day."

It wasn’t just homeless people who came to the shelter. Parents, families, children who had very little were all welcome. They didn’t always stay, either. We gave meals, clothes, toys that were all donated by patrons.

The children's corner was my little project.

It was a small oasis I'd carved out of donated materials and stubborn optimism.

Mismatched child-sized chairs circled a rug I'd bought at Goodwill—alphabet animals that had survived countless spills and accidents.

The bookshelf leaned slightly left, propped up with a folded cardboard under one leg, but the books stood in perfect order: board books on bottom, picture books in the middle, early readers on top.

I straightened the tiny chairs, each one a different color and era.

The blue plastic one had a crack down the back held together with duct tape.

The wooden one wobbled unless you knew to put weight on the front left corner.

But they were sized for small bodies, letting kids feel like the space belonged to them while their parents picked up their aid.

The crayons lived in old coffee cans I'd wrapped in construction paper, sorted by color because chaos needed boundaries somewhere.

Fresh coloring pages waited in a folder—pictures I'd printed at the library before it closed, paying ten cents a page from my tip money.

Butterflies and dinosaurs and princess castles, because even here, especially here, children deserved to choose their own adventures.

A movement caught my eye. A toddler, maybe three years old, stood at the edge of the rug clutching a teddy bear that had seen better decades. His eyes were huge and solemn, the kind that had already seen too much but still hoped for gentleness.

"Hi sweetie." I dropped to my knees, making myself smaller, less threatening. The concrete floor bit through my jeans but I ignored it. "What's your bear's name?"

He stepped closer, bare feet silent on the alphabet rug. His clothes were clean but too big, pants rolled up at the cuffs, shirt hanging past his knees. Someone was trying their best with what they had.

"Bear," he whispered, holding the toy tighter.

"That's a perfect name." I settled cross-legged, patting the spot next to me. "Would Bear like to hear a story?"

He nodded, still cautious but drawn by the promise of attention that wasn't harried or distracted. I knew that hunger, remembered it from my own childhood when Mom worked three jobs and exhaustion was a family member.

Damn, I was so much like her.

"Which one should we read?" I pulled three books from the shelf, fanning them out like cards.

I pushed thoughts of Mom out of my head—this kid deserved to be with someone happy right now.

"We have one about a bunny who loses his mittens, one about a truck that makes friends, or one about a bear who loves hugs. "

His eyes locked on the bear book. Of course. I should have known.

"Perfect choice." I opened the cover, shifting so he could see the pictures. "Come sit with me."

He climbed into my lap like it was the most natural thing in the world, his weight negligible but grounding. He smelled like donated shampoo and the particular sweetness of young children. Bear got positioned carefully where he could see the pictures too.

"Once upon a time," I began, my voice dropping into the rhythm I'd learned from Mom, from years of making stories feel safe, "there was a bear who gave the best hugs in the whole forest."

The toddler relaxed against me, thumb finding his mouth. Around us, the shelter continued its evening chaos—adults arguing over shower schedules, volunteers distributing bag lunches for tomorrow, someone's untreated cough echoing off the walls. But in our small corner, none of that mattered.

"All the animals came to him when they felt sad or scared or lonely," I continued, turning the page slowly, letting him absorb each picture. "Because his hugs were magic. They made everything feel better."

His free hand found mine, small fingers wrapping around my thumb.

Such simple trust, offered without condition or calculation.

In that moment, my failed engine and final paycheck and impossible math faded to background noise.

This was why I came here. Not just to help, though that mattered.

But for these moments when I could be the grown-up I'd needed as a child.

The one who sat still, who spoke softly, who made space for smallness in a world that demanded everyone be big all the time.

"The bear never ran out of hugs," I read, my voice steady despite the tightness in my throat. "Because the more he gave away, the more he had to share."

By the time I finished the story, two more children had joined us. A girl with pigtails leaned against my left side. A boy barely older than a toddler sat mesmerized by the pictures. None of them spoke, but their presence said everything.

This was what I was good at. Not waitressing or bookkeeping or any of the jobs that might pay bills. But this—creating safety in chaos, offering gentleness without judgment, remembering that children were people too, just smaller and more honest about their needs.