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T he dinner line moved with practiced efficiency—paper plates, plastic spoons, napkins that disintegrated if you looked at them wrong.

Next to me, Jerome handled the sandwiches—white bread, single slice of bologna, American cheese if we had it.

Mustard and mayo in packets that people hoarded like gold.

"Thank you, honey." Margaret held her plate steady despite the tremor in her hands.

Parkinson's, she'd told me once, when I'd asked if she needed help carrying her tray.

Former high school English teacher, thirty years of shaping young minds, and now she slept on a cot in the women's section because her insurance wouldn't cover the experimental treatment and her pension couldn't stretch to cover both medication and rent.

I smiled, added an extra packet of crackers to her plate.

She'd taught at Ironridge High until five years ago.

Probably had some of the same students I'd graduated with.

Now she quoted Shakespeare while waiting for the shower and corrected people's grammar with gentle persistence that made everyone call her Miss M.

"Bless you," she murmured, shuffling toward the tables.

Next came James, Vietnam vet with eyes that never quite focused on the present. He'd shown me his Bronze Star once, pulled it from his pocket like a talisman against the assumption that he deserved this somehow.

"Looking good tonight, James." I made sure his soup had actual vegetables, fishing them up from the bottom of the pot.

"Every day above ground," he replied, the same response he gave to any pleasantry. His hands shook less than usual—must be a good day.

Behind him, Sarah juggled her two kids while balancing a baby on her hip.

Five, three, and six months old. Her husband had left when she was seven months pregnant, cleaned out their bank account on his way to Nevada.

She'd been staying here three weeks, waiting for her name to come up on the subsidized housing list. Could be another month. Could be six.

"Let me help." I came around the serving table, taking plates for the older kids while she managed the baby.

"You're an angel," she said, and I wanted to laugh or cry because angels didn't have to lie about their job status or count pennies in their pocket or calculate how many days until they'd be standing on the other side of this table.

We found them seats together, the five-year-old carefully arranging napkins while the three-year-old immediately grabbed his sandwich with both hands. Normal kids doing normal kid things in a deeply abnormal situation.

I returned to the serving line, mechanical movements hiding the calculator in my head that wouldn't stop running numbers.

Even if I found a job tomorrow—impossible—I wouldn't see a paycheck for two weeks.

Three if they held back the first one like most places did.

By then I'd be evicted, van repossessed if it lasted that long, credit cards already maxed and screaming for minimum payments I couldn't make.

My chest tightened. The ladle shook in my hand, soup sloshing dangerously close to the edge. I set it down, pressed my thumbnail into my palm hard enough to leave a crescent moon indent. The sharp pain helped, gave my spiraling thoughts something to anchor to.

One month. That's how far I was from this side of the table.

Less if the van died completely. Less if another crisis hit—and there was always another crisis.

I watched the line of people accepting charity with tired gratitude and saw my future reflecting back like a funhouse mirror showing the truth instead of distortion.

"You okay?" Elena appeared at my elbow, her concerned grandmother energy impossible to deflect.

"Fine." The word came out higher than intended. I cleared my throat, tried again. "Just tired. Long shift."

Her eyes narrowed, taking in details I wished I could hide. The way I kept pressing my thumb to my palm. The tremor in my hands. The smile that sat on my face like a mask that didn't quite fit.

"Why don't you take a break? Get some air?"

"No, I'm good. Really." I picked up the ladle again, proof of my stability. "Lots of people still need to eat."

She hesitated, caught between pushing and respecting boundaries. That was Elena's gift and curse—she knew when people were drowning but also knew that sometimes pointing it out made them sink faster.

"If you need anything," she started.

"I know." I ladled soup for the next person in line, movements steady through pure will. "Thank you."

She squeezed my shoulder and moved on to handle some dispute over sleeping arrangements. I kept serving, kept smiling, kept pretending my world wasn't collapsing in slow motion.

My phone buzzed—a text from my landlord about upcoming maintenance. Code for checking if I'd have rent on time. I deleted it without responding, added him to the growing list of calls I couldn't answer.

The children's corner waited for cleanup, books to be reshelved, crayons to be sorted. I moved toward it on autopilot, needing the familiar ritual. At least here I could create order. At least here I could fix something.

Even if I couldn't fix myself.