Shattered by Eric Walters Page A

time.
    I grabbed the handle of the door to the Club and tried to pull it open. It rattled but didn’t open. I knocked. It echoed loudly. I waited, listening for an answer. There was none. I knocked again. This time louder and longer.Still nothing. I’d be awfully ticked off if I’d come down here early—like we’d agreed—and Mac wasn’t here. Either way, though, whether I was in there working or out here standing, I was still counting this as volunteer hours. I knocked again. No answer. Either Mac wasn’t here or he was just ignoring the noise. He probably got a lot of people pounding on the door wanting to get inside to eat. It wasn’t like most of the homeless people had watches. Maybe there was another way in.
    I circled around to the alley at the side of the building. I’d gone no more than a few feet when I was stopped in my tracks by the sight of two legs sticking out from beside a dumpster. Was somebody dead or … I gave my head a shake. It was probably just somebody waiting for supper. They would have figured this was a good place to get out of the wind. I walked forward, angling out and away from that side of the alley. I glanced over and then stopped for a better look. It was an old man, sitting on the ground, leaning against the wall, his eyes closed, a halfempty bottle in his hand. As I stood there, he opened one eye and looked at me. He mumbled something I couldn’t hear and then his eye fell shut again. He certainly wasn’t dead. Not unless you counted dead drunk.
    As I got to the end of the alley I saw a large truck, backed in so it was tucked close to the open rear door of the building. At that instant Mac came out through the door and grabbed a box from the back of the truck. He looked up, saw me, and waved.
    â€œJust in time!” he called out. “Grab a box!”
    I rushed over. The truck was piled high with crates and cardboard boxes and bins. I picked one up.
    â€œWhat’s in all of these?” I asked.
    â€œThis is a place where people come to get food … so …” “This is all food?”
    â€œBingo!”
    I trailed after Mac, and as we entered the building a man came out.
    â€œExtra hands is good,” he said. He had on a shirt emblazoned with Second Harvest Trucking on the front so I assumed he was the driver.
    Mac set his box down on the table that was already piled high with other boxes. I went to put mine down when he stopped me.
    â€œThat one goes in the freezer. Follow me, I’ll show you.”
    Mac led the way to a large metal door. He opened it up and gestured for me to enter. I was immediately hit with a wave of cold. It was a gigantic walk-in freezer. The walls were lined with shelves and the shelves were filled with boxes and cartons and containers.
    â€œPut it right here,” Mac said.
    â€œThere’s a whole lot of food in here.”
    â€œEnough for eight or nine days.”
    â€œThere’s got to be more than that.”
    â€œSecond time here and the kid thinks he’s an expert,” Mac said.
    â€œNo, it’s just that—”
    Mac started laughing, his breath coming out in little white puffs in the cold. “You gotta lighten up, kid. I was just pulling your leg.”
    We walked out of the freezer and he closed the door behind us with a loud metallic click.
    â€œIt takes a lot of food to feed more than a hundred men a day,” Mac said. “A lot of food and a whole lot of work. Glad to see you here to help. Although I’m a little surprised.”
    â€œWhy are you surprised? This is when I’m supposed to be here, right?”
    â€œThat’s the time we agreed to, but lots of people who show up once don’t show up again. Especially people who aren’t used to this sort of thing … people who come from privilege.”
    â€œWhat makes you think that’s me?” I asked.
    â€œWell, for starters, the way you were dressed last