He was doing one last check of the Mission when he heard the noise coming from the kitchen.

He turned off the flashlight and padded down the hall, keeping his back to the wall. Theft was a constant problem at the Mission, both from the homeless themselves, and from random people off the street looking to make a quick buck by ripping off the servants of God. He hefted the heavy maglite and hoped that they didn’t have guns: he had friends and family who suggested that he carry one himself.

He told them, in no uncertain terms, where they could stick their guns, how hard, and at what angle. He’d carried one long enough in the jungle. He’d be damned if he touched another one in his life.

The kitchen door had been picked, the door left ajar, the lights still on. There was the sound of clattering bowls, of utensils being thrown down from their shelves, and underneath it all, a panicked muttering.

“Salt, salt, where’s the salt?”

“What the hell?” Jeremy wondered. He hefted the maglite and opened the door.