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Father Ted Barlow was sweating. The temperature outside was little higher than freezing, but in the homeless shelter next to the soup kitchen, the air was as hot and humid as a tropical paradise. Ten of the twelve beds were already full. Conversation was low and spotted with phlegm-filled chuckles.

The heat was his bishop’s idea, a tip given on Father Ted’s first day in the diocese.

“Never drop the thermostat lower than seventy-five in the winter. These poor souls have suffered too much from the cold already. And it’s the only way you’ll get them to part with their clothes so you can get them in the wash.”

The bishop hadn’t been wrong. Trying to get his guests—and Father Ted always thought of the people who stayed in the shelter as guests—to remove even a crusty, toe-holed sock was harder than persuading a two-year-old to hand over a binkie. When dirt was all someone had, they held on to it.

He stopped at the first bed and wiped his brow. The man who lay on the mattress had narrow clean-shaven cheeks and sunken gray eyes beneath thin red hair. He appeared to be in his mid-fifties but could’ve just as easily been in his early thirties. The streets added years quickly. Drugs and alcohol added even more.

Mike was new, and Father Ted didn’t know anything about him except his first name, that he’d spent five years in the military, and that he liked chocolate cake and couldn’t stand carrot cake.

The priest lowered the plastic sack he was holding. He sat on the edge of the bed and waited until his newest guest sat up. “How are you doing, Mike? Get you anything?”

“I’m good, Father. Had myself a hot meal. Got a pillow under my head and a roof over it tonight. That’s about as much as a man can ask for.”

Father Ted smiled. This was one of the best parts of his job. Not many people got to hear gratitude expressed so often and so sincerely for things that were so simple.

He pulled the sack closer.

“Hey, what size are you? Large, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Here.” Father Ted pulled a sweater out of the bag. It was red and woolen with knitted reindeer and a line of green Christmas trees. Last year’s gift, no doubt, tossed away to make room for something new. They often came in this time of year.

He held the sweater in front of Mike. “I think that’ll fit. Why don’t you try it on?”

Mike eyed the sweater suspiciously. “Kinda festive.”

“’Tis the season, after all.”

Still, Mike hesitated. At last, he sat higher and pulled his sweater over his head. A small cloud of dust and dirt drifted onto the floor. Beneath the sweater, Mike wore a checked shirt with a torn pocket and one button missing.

Father Ted dropped the Christmas sweater onto the foot of the bed. “Just a minute. I think I’ve got one like that too.” He rummaged in the bag again and pulled out a man’s shirt and a round-neck t-shirt. “Here you go, just your style. Why don’t you put these on, and I’ll put those in the wash for you?”

Mike pulled away. “Hey, these are mine.”

“And so are these now.” Father Ted laid the shirt and the t-shirt on the bed and held out his hand. “I run a load of laundry here every night. You put these on in the meantime, and when the wash is done, you keep both sets. Hot food, a bed, and clean clothes. You didn’t ask for more, but you got it.”

When Mike pulled his undershirt over his head, Father Ted struggled not to breathe in sharply.

Mike’s ribs were visible under his skin. Scars and bruises ran across his thin chest. Whatever muscle he’d built in the military had long shriveled away, leaving him with little more than ligament and bone.

Father Ted dropped Mike’s old clothes into a laundry bag. “I’ll get these back to you as soon as they’re clean.”

At the next bed lay Old Clive, with his white beard and his bulbous red nose. He was a regular and, as usual, he was drinking from a bottle hidden in a paper bag. Father Ted took the bag from his hand.

“You know that’s not allowed in here.”

Clive tried to retrieve the bag, but his effort was half-hearted and his reach short. Father Ted pulled the bottle away.

“You know we hold meetings in the room next door. Every week. Do you want me to keep a place for you?”

Clive kept his eyes on the bottle. He shrugged. “Sure, Father. You do that for me.”

Father Ted patted him on the shoulder. He’d hold a spot, though he knew there was almost no chance Clive would turn up. He never did.

As he continued to gather clothes, he greeted his guests as he passed them, wished them a good night, returned a fist bump, and delivered a high five. The doorbell rang. Placing the bags of clean and dirty clothes on a table, Father Ted strode between the beds.

The last two beds were empty. There was still room for more that night.

He opened the door.

A figure stood outside. His hood was up, and his face was down. His sweatshirt was torn and muddy, and brambles stuck to the folds of his baggy jeans.

Father Ted opened the door wider. “Welcome home. We have a bed for everyone here.”

The man lowered his hood. He had a fresh face and wild eyes. “I’m not here for a bed. I’m here to get what’s coming to me.”