The broth was always too thin on the nights we sent the heavy plastic container out to the alley. My mother stood by the stove, her fingers clutching the silver locket she kept tucked under her collar.
“The duct tape on my left sole is peeling again, Mom,” I said, leaning my back against the cold refrigerator. “My toes are wet before I even reach the bus stop.”
Mother did not look up from the pot of boiling celery and fifty-cent cans of chicken broth. She ladled the steaming liquid into a blue Tupperware bowl, filling it nearly to the brim.
“We have to take care of people, Fiona,” she said, her voice carrying that breathless, hurried rush that meant she was sliding into a corner. She smoothed her hands flat against her faded floral apron.
“He is a stranger,” I said, tightening the black strap of my wristwatch until the leather pinched my wrist. “He lives behind our fence in a pile of scrap plywood.”
“Nobody is a stranger to God,” she whispered.
She pressed the lid onto the blue container until it clicked, then wrapped it in a kitchen towel to keep the heat in. She pushed the bundle toward me.
“Take it to the fence before it gets fully dark,” she said.
I took the warm bundle and stepped out onto the back porch into the November dusk. The cold air hit my face instantly, and my wet left foot numbed as I walked down the narrow gravel driveway.
The wooden fence at the back of our yard was grey and splitting, held together with rusted brackets. Through the gaps, I could see the shape of Victor’s shelter, a lean-to made of old packing crates and a blue tarp.
Victor was already standing near the loose slat in the fence, his shoulders hunched against the wind. He wore a dark, oversized coat and kept his hands tucked deep into his sleeves.
“Evening, Fiona,” he said. His voice was a low, gravelly rasp that sounded like pebbles sliding down a metal chute.
“Here,” I said, shoving the warm container through the gap where the wood had rotted away.
