“Hey, I’m no shrink, I just love Jesus, all right,” Jeremy complained. “Besides, I’m only trying to help.”

Sara ran a fingertip over a hole in the upholstery, teasing away bits of the loose fibers between her thumb and finger, picking at the crumbling yellow foam. “You’ve helped enough,” Sara said. “You gave me a warm place to sleep tonight, and you gave me a hot meal. That’s all I can really ask for.”

“But it’s not all that you need,” Jeremy went on. “There’s more I can do to help you, and you just aren’t letting me do it. Why not?”

Sara was silent for a long, long time. “Do you know Mrs. Gribley?” she asked.

“Who?”

“Mrs. Gribley. Beatrice Gribley. The old bag lady who sat over there while we were watching Jeopardy.” She pointed at the sagging naugahyde couch. “Seventy years old, no family, no friends, used to be a dancer.”

“I haven’t really talked to her, no,” Jeremy admitted.

“Then why are you so determined to help me, who doesn’t want help, when there’s someone else who needs it more?” Sara asked.