Page 40 of When We Are Falling

The garden out front is well-tended, with colorful flowers. The only signs it’s not an ordinary home are the sturdy security screens on the windows, the heavy-duty door with a pin code to enter, and cameras watching the front entrance.

I park just as a young woman steps out the front door, a baby balanced on her hip. She looks so young, probably no older than sixteen or seventeen, yet the weight of the world seems to have settled on her shoulders. Her eyes are tired, and her clothes, though clean, are worn and a bit too big for her small frame.

The baby, chubby-cheeked and wide-eyed, clings to her with tiny fingers. I feel that familiar pang in my chest, both gratitude and sorrow. Coming here is always a poignant reminder of how different my life could have been if not for my moms.

Stepping out of the car, Reverend Billy Johnson stands in the front garden, a packet of files in one hand, a warm expression on his face as he pauses to speak to the young woman with the baby.

He’s a tall, imposing figure with a face that seems to radiate warmth and compassion. His salt-and-pepper hair is cropped short, and he wears a simple clerical collar with a dark shirt and slacks.

Known for his gentle soul, Reverend Billy is the heart of this place. He listens without judgment, and the women’s shelter and his community outreach programs have helped so many. Waving as I approach, he nods to the young woman who excuses herself.

His eyes crinkle at the corners. “Good morning. It’s always a pleasure to see you.”

“Morning, Reverend,” I reply, the weight of the day lifting slightly just being in his presence. “Sorry I’m late. I’ve been busy with the oil spill all morning.”

“You’re just in time. We’ve got some donations to sort through, and a couple of new arrivals. I’m sure they’d love to meet you, maybe have a coffee.”

We walk inside, both signing in and saying hi to Jenny, the security guard, before I take in the familiar sights and sounds of the shelter. The walls are lined with inspirational quotes and artwork created by the residents, while the air smells faintly of disinfectant and fresh laundry.

Women and children move through the halls, some with tentative smiles, others with faces etched in worry. Reverend Billy leads me to the common area, a bright room filled with comfortable couches and a play area for the children.

“The new batch of donations is just in those bags over there, and I’ll let those newcomers know you’re here and willing to talk to them about the support services available.”

“Sounds good. Thank you.”

“I should be the one saying thank you toyou. Your presence always makes a difference.”

His words make me feel good, and a sense of purpose settles over me. He’s about to turn away when I remember I wanted to talk to him. “Oh! By the way, has the mayor gotten back to you about the children’s emergency accommodation?”

The reverend shakes his head. “Not yet, sorry. I know how important that project is to you. But with the oil spill she’s just been so busy, and I think budget is going to be an even bigger issue now, with so much money being diverted to the spill.”

“Of course.” Trying to hide my disappointment, but no doubt failing. The reverend gives me a sympathetic pat on the back.

I’ve been campaigning the mayor for a couple of years now to get some decent emergency accommodation for kids in foster care. If they’re removed from their homes after hours, or if there are no foster placements available, they often need to spend the night in the offices of the Child Protective Services, sometimes with multiple children of mixed ages bunking down in the childcare room or a conference room.

I want the mayor to build or buy some decent short term accommodation for the kids in our area, which is staffed by professionals and offers proper bedrooms. It’s hard enough being taken away from family—spending days or even weeks on a roll out mattress in the same room as strangers is downright terrifying. Trust me, I know.

Letting out a sigh, rolling up my sleeves and getting to work, it’s impossible not to reflect on the sliding doors of fate. By some twist of luck, I ended up with my moms, avoiding a life of battling homelessness and addiction like David, or worse.

The shelter is a place of hope, but its stability is fragile, and most of the women and children here just want a chance to stand on their own two feet: an opportunity to move forward and improve their lives with agency and dignity. And I’ll do anything I can to help them.

Chapter 19

Ethan

Standingat my pickup truck in the drop zone field, packing away my gear and the rigs after a jump with Liam and a couple of experienced jumpers, a wave of tiredness hits me. It’s only mid-afternoon, but we’ve already spent a long morning cleaning the oil spill with our respective volunteer groups before heading out for the jump.

Bandit lies sprawled on the grass, his blue-gray coat catching the sunlight. His eyes are closed, ears twitching occasionally. The warmth of the sun has lulled him into a peaceful slumber, his paws gently twitching as if he’s chasing something in his dreams.

“Man, these last few weeks have been really demoralizing.” I stow the last of the rigs, shaking my head. “It feels like we’re barely making a dent with the oil. Every time we think we’re making progress, there’s another setback.”

Liam wipes sweat from his brow. “I hear you. It’s like a never-ending nightmare. But we’re doing our best. That’s all we can do.”

I sigh, leaning against the truck. “I’m not used to having a problem I can’t fix. It’s driving me nuts.”

Liam slaps me on the back. “Well, you’re not Superman, you know. All you can do is what you’re doing.” He starts putting away a set of strings, glancing at me sideways with a smirk. “How’s Blake?”

I can’t help the rush of happiness. “It’s been great, actually. We’ve been spending a lot of time together.”

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