Serpents Rising by David A. Poulsen Page B

can hang your coat up over there if you want.”
    She pointed to a wall off to the right and a coat rack that was a rough cut two-by-four and several nails. None of the nails were at the same height or protruded from the two-by-four at the same distance. A couple of coats hung next to a pair of blue smocks, the same shade as hospital gowns. Jill hung her own coat on a vacant nail, took down one of the smocks, pulled it over her jeans and Gap hoodie. An interesting mix of fashion.
    I wasn’t sure why she’d suggested I remove my coat. She cleared that up for me right away. “I can tell you about Jay, but it’ll cost you. We had a couple of big donations come in tonight. I could use help sorting.”
    I looked at my watch. Twenty to nine. It was maybe five minutes to the bookstore so that left me fifteen minutes to spend talking to Jill. And sorting. Since she was the most promising source of information to date — virtually the only source of information — I figured the fifteen minutes might be well spent. And I’d get a chance to do a little volunteering. Good for the soul.
    I hung my coat on the nail that had formerly held the smock. “Okay, where do I start and what do I do?”
    She pointed to a table stacked high with cardboard boxes. I actually rolled up my sleeves, ready for work, but with no idea what my role was to be.
    â€œBoxed goods and paper-wrapped stuff over there, canned items on those shelves. Anything perishable has to go out of here right away so set it out on that table next to the back door.”
    â€œRight.” I sorted and Jill talked while she filled cardboard boxes with a mix of items.
    â€œFirst time I met Jay was at a pancake breakfast one of the service clubs puts on every year. It was December a year ago, so eleven months I guess. About a week before Christmas. I was a volunteer server. Some corporate bigwigs and a couple of politicians were there supposedly to help, but mostly for the photo ops.
    â€œJay … he looked lost, didn’t even know if he was allowed to have the breakfast. I happened to see him, and told him he was welcome to join in. I noticed he didn’t seem to know many people so I got some pancakes and juice and sat down across from him. Good-looking kid; he looked like he should have been the quarterback on the football team or learning his lines for the school play.
    â€œAnyway, it was obvious he hadn’t had a lot of good meals in a while so I just let him eat. I could tell he was really enjoying the breakfast, every few bites he’d nod as if to say ‘now that’s a great chunk of pancake right there.’ When he was finished we both got another cup of coffee and sat back down. Small talk for a while, then he told me about himself. Or at least he told me some of it. Soup and canned spaghetti on that middle shelf.”
    She pointed and I nodded.
    â€œTurns out he was pretty much as advertised. Even though he looked like he’d been on the street a while, he had something about him that told you he had come from something a lot different. Sure enough, he had played on the football team, he told me that, although I’m not sure he was the quarterback. Clean cut, went with one of the prettiest girls, got decent grades, drove a cool teenager car — one of those guys who didn’t give anybody much trouble. Like I said, a good kid.”
    â€œI have a feeling the story is about to turn.”
    Jill nodded. “Depression. All that great stuff going on, looked like he had it all but inside he hated himself, hated his life, even talked suicide. Doesn’t remember when it started, just remembers feeling like that as far back as junior high. His parents got him into counselling, some drug therapy. It was hit and miss. He’d go along for a while feeling okay, then it was like the world, all of it, was a real bad place to be. Then when he was in eleventh grade, his parents split and the