Page 1 of Phoenix

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LINDSAY

I’d eaten plenty of boxed mac and cheese in my twenty years, but this one didn’t even remotely resemble real cheese. Not even the normal fake stuff. Or smell anything like it. But the boxes were basically the only things in Juniper Grove Center’s—the local youth community center—pantry that hadn’t expired yet. Even if I had to make them without milk and used some of the pasta water instead.

I stirred the contents of the giant metal pot, watching the pale orange powder swirl through the noodles as steam rose into the hot, sticky air. The kitchen fan rattled in the corner, doing little more than pushing hot air in circles. One of the overhead lights had been flickering for days, and I’d already smacked it with a broom handle twice this morning.

“Miss Lindsay, can I stir next?”

I looked down at Devin, one of the fourth graders in the summer camp program.

He had flour on his cheek from the homemade moon sand we’d made earlier and a grin so wide that the knot in my shoulders loosened just a little.

“Only if you promise not to start a food fight again,” I teased, handing him the long, beat-up spoon that had probably been here back when I was his age.

“That was an accident!” he insisted, eyes wide with mock innocence.

“Sure it was.”

I leaned back against the counter, watching him carefully stir the mac and cheese as though it were the most important job in the world. And honestly, for this place—for these kids—it really was.

I grew up coming here. Back then, it had seemed huge and full of life, with cheerful chaos and crayon-covered posters on every wall. The staff always had something fun planned, the meals were healthy, and the snacks were plentiful. Some Fridays, we even got pizza. Those were the best days.

Now, the kids didn’t get to go anywhere fun. Half the hallway lights were out. The vending machine ate quarters without remorse. And each time I’d been tasked with cooking lunch during the three weeks I’d been back for summer break, I’d had to cobble together a meal from whatever supplies hadn’t expired in the pantry.

I still loved the community center and didn’t think that would ever change. This place had been my home away from home when my mom had to work two full-time jobs just to make ends meet.

The center mattered to me. And so did the kids.

After lunch, we got everyone settled into the main room with a movie. The projector flickered against the peeling paint, casting faded colors onto a wall that probably hadn’t seen a fresh coat in a decade. I ducked into the supply closet, hoping we still had enough paper plates and napkins for snack time later.

No such luck. We were down to mismatched paper towel scraps and a half-empty box of peanut butter crackers that looked like they’d been here as long as the paint on the wall.

I sighed and shut the door with my hip, glancing down the hallway where two lights were still out. I’d reported it last week, but the manager had just mumbled something about taking care of it later.

The vending machine at the end of the hall blinked with a flickering red error light. One of the teenagers had kicked it in frustration yesterday after it stole his only dollar. I didn’t blame him.

The art supplies were even worse. I’d nearly cried the day I opened the cabinet and found nothing but dried-out glue sticks and a pile of broken crayons. Which was why I’d done some research on cheap stuff I could do with the kids and came up with the easy recipe of combining flour and oil to make moon sand.

And it wasn’t just the little stuff that was a problem around here. The field trip that was supposed to happen last Friday was canceled at the last minute due to a supposed transportation issue. The kids had been so disappointed, but June had saved the day by grabbing a bunch of beach balls from her minivan and coming up with a fun game to play outside. She was the only employee still here from back when I came as a kid, and she was just as nice as I remembered.

Something was wrong, and June was the only person at the community center who I felt comfortable asking about it.

I wiped my hands on a tattered dish towel and went looking for her.

She was in one of the back rooms, crouched beside a crate of board games someone had donated, sorting through them with practiced care. A chipped mug that saidDon’t Make Me Use My Teacher Voicesat on the table next to her, and I smiled despite myself. Some things really didn’t change.

I leaned against the doorway. “Hey, you got a second?”

“Sure do,” she replied without looking up. “Unless you’re here to tell me this Monopoly game is missing half of the hotel pieces. In which case, I already know and refuse to be held responsible. I don’t know why people think it’s a good idea to donate stuff that’s useless. It takes three copies of the same game for me to put together a version the kids can actually play.”

I huffed a laugh and stepped inside. “Some things never change. I remember you making a game of us sorting the boxes one time when someone dropped off a bunch of them.”

She dusted her hands off and straightened, flashing me a smile. “And I seem to recall that you were the best of the bunch when it came to separating the pieces.”

“What can I say?” I shrugged and laughed softly. “Counting is fun.”

“Says the math major,” she teased, wagging her brows. “But not so much for me.”

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