Isaiah could only nod his head.
Barnes looked at the glass frame that Isaiah unknowingly pulled out of his coat pocket.
“I once saw that ribbon on your wrist.”
“I haven’t thought about it in years.” He bowed his head towards the corner.
“You know, Victoria is still feeding the babies.”
On Thursdays at New Hope Baptist Church, two blocks to the east, a food distribution service is offered.
I’ve been doing this for years.
Every report that Isaiah read, every database it used, every failed interview and every query sent by mail suddenly collapsed under the weight of this simple fact.
It did not disappear and did not remain a secret.
It remained where hunger was still present.
He thanked Barnes and walked two streets so quickly that he almost forgot to close the car.
The New Hope Baptist Church was housed in a modest, brick building with a small side entrance and a hand-painted painted garden on elevated beds at the front.
Through the windows of the basement, he saw some movement: folding tables, piles of bread boxes, volunteers in hair mesh.
He went down the stairs and his heart was pounding in his throat.
In the room there was a smell of chopped fruit, coffee and industrial cleaning products.
