Wesley Rescue Center was founded in the late 1800s, but it rose to prominence in the during the Great Depression. Over its hundred-and-twenty year history, it had boasted countless lives saved, thousands of souls brought off the streets, millions of hot meals served.

Jeremy was the latest in a long line of men who had worn an apron behind the counter. With his powerful voice and broad smile, he ruled over his crew of volunteers with a light but firm hand. He ran a tight ship: twenty minutes for setup, another thirty to eat, and then it was ten minutes to wipe down the tables before the next group came in.

It was at the end of the women’s dinnertime when he first saw her. She was small, and frail, like a bird, and her skin was very pale. She wore a heavy wool overcoat that had been heavily patched and mended: neatly, if not expertly. But what stood out for Jeremy was the haunted look in her eyes. He had seen the same look in Vietnam, the same thousand-yard stare of a soul who had seen too much to forget.