Page 75 of Taking Chances

I pull out my wallet from the back pocket, digging the ID out while the bodyguard eyes me suspiciously. He writes down my info onto a sign-in sheet before returning the card.

“Thanks, man,” I say.

“Come on.” Anne’s soft hand squeezes mine in excitement, pulling me through the hallway.

“Hi, Sam. I brought help.” Her voice is cheerful as she greets the woman holding the scheduling pad.

“Sam. Good to have you here.” The woman is in her mid-thirties, heavily covered in tattoos, and her smile is warm and inviting.

“Lennox.” I shake her hand, returning the smile.

“We have a giant pile of donations for you to sort through.” She brings us to a small storage room overfilled with boxes and shoots us a grin. “Let me know when you grow tired of it.”

“So the safe house residents aren’t here?” I ask when Sam leaves.

“Oh, typically not. We do organize some classes here and they pick up the donations, though. Some of them also decide to volunteer here in a safe environment before they’re ready to get out into the outside world.”

I exhale a breath of relief. I guess I don’t have to be afraid of running into them and hearing their stories.

“What’s all this?” I look around.

“The donations they receive. A massive amount of these boxes arrive every week, but unfortunately, most of it’s trash.” She shudders. “But we go through everything, sorting what is garbage and what is good for use.” She grabs a pair of scissors and cuts open the first box. “It’s things like clothing, hygiene products, etc. All usable clothes go there”—she gestures to the pile of huge bags on the left side of the door—“sorted by type and size. The hygiene products go here”—she points to a large box in front of her—“but only the unopened ones. And the rest goes to trash.” She waves to a giant pile of clothes that is, supposedly, the trash pile.

I nod, taking the scissors out of her hands and opening a box of my own. She’s right, most of this is trash. Dirty or worn-out clothes. Half-empty bottles of shampoo. Even opened boxes of menstrual pads.

“And the residents… need this?” I ask, chucking one of those opened boxes in the trash with my face scrunched up.

She sighs deeply before responding. “They do. Most of them get away in the middle of the night, grabbing their kids and nothing else. It’s luck if they even have their IDs and medical documents. It’s rare that someone has time to plan a perfect escape.” She pauses for a second. “And lives to see it through.” Her voice breaks a little and my legs go weak.

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I try to steady my breath and continue sorting. My focus is off, and I guess she notices.

“Hey, sorry if this isn’t how you wanted to spend your Saturday.”

“No. It’s nice,” I lie.

Nothing about this is nice. We’re sorting through trash to try and find some things that can be useful to women and children trying to avoid being fucking murdered. Trying to find scraps of basic necessities for the people who already lost pretty much everything.

She spares me another glance, probably knowing something is wrong, but just as she opens her mouth to say something, the door opens.

“Anne!” A scrappy kid that looks about seven years old runs in, directly into Anne’s arms.

“Mason!” Anne squeals back, just as delighted to see him.

“Who’s this?” He turns to me, scooting closer to Anne.

“This is my friend, Lennox. He’s here to help me.” Her hand lands on his shoulder, lightly squeezing it.

“I thought I was the one helping you,” he protests.

“Don’t worry. I need plenty of helpers. Matter of fact, there’s a box right here with your name on it.” She cuts open another box.

“This says ‘toys’.”

“Exactly.” She winks and his mouth parts on a silent ‘oh’.

“What I like I can keep?” His voice is hopeful.

“Of course, Mace. When have I ever let you down?”

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