I passed a property with a For Sale sign stuck in the ground at the end of the driveway, and I drove up to a small, light blue house and parked. No one answered my knock so I walked around to the back yard. There was land as far as I could see. I grabbed a fact sheet from the plastic tube attached to the For Sale sign. It listed the phone number of a realtor. I folded it up, stuck it in my pocket, and drove away.

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Chapter 65 – Anna

Bo and I walked the city streets for hours. His leash came unhooked one warm day in September, and I spent a frantic ten minutes trying to catch up with him as he galloped down the sidewalk, weaving through the crowd. I finally got close enough to grab his collar, and I snapped the leash back on, relieved. A little boy stood a few steps away, watching from an open doorway that faced the street. The sign above his head read Family Shelter.

“Is that your dog?” he asked. He wore a striped T-shirt and needed a haircut. Freckles dotted his nose and cheeks.

I stood up and led Bo over to him. “Yes. His name is Bo. Do you like dogs?”

“Yeah. ‘Specially yellow ones.”

“He’s a golden retriever. He’s five years old.”

“I’m five years old!” he said, his face lighting up.

“What’s your name?”

“Leo.”

“Well, Leo, you can pet Bo if you want to. You have to be gentle with animals, though, okay?”

“Okay.” He stroked Bo’s fur carefully, looking at me out of the corner of his eye to see if I noticed how gentle he was being. “I better go. Henry said not to leave the doorway. Thanks for letting me pet your dog.” He hugged Bo and before I could say goodbye, he darted back inside. Bo strained at his leash, wanting to follow him.

“Come on, Bo,” I said, pulling firmly. Leading him from the doorway, we walked back home.

I went back the next day, alone. Two women, one with a baby on her hip, lingered near the entrance.

“Hey, white girl, Bloomie’s is that way.” She pointed while her friend laughed.

I ignored her and walked through the doorway. Once inside, I scanned the room for Leo. It was Monday, and there weren’t any kids around. Under federal law, all children were guaranteed an education whether they had a permanent residence or not. Thankfully, the parents at the shelter appeared to be taking advantage of that right.

A man walked up to me, wiping his hands on a dishtowel. Mid-fifties, I guessed. He wore jeans, a faded, nondescript polo shirt, and tennis shoes.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

“My name is Anna Emerson.”

“Henry Elings,” he said, shaking my outstretched hand.

“There was a little boy yesterday. I met him when he was standing in the doorway. He liked my dog.” Henry smiled and waited patiently for me to get to the point. “I was wondering if you needed any volunteers.”

“We need a lot of things here. Volunteers are definitely one of them.” His eyes were kind and his tone was mild but he’d probably heard this kind of thing before. Housewives and junior leaguers from the suburbs, swooping in intermittently so they could brag to their book clubs about how they were making a difference.

“Our residents’ needs are very basic,” he continued. “Food and shelter. They don’t always smell the best. A bath can be a low priority compared to a hot meal and a bed.”

I wondered if he recognized my name, or my face from the pictures in the newspaper. If he did, he didn’t mention it. “I’ve been dirty, and I don’t really care how anyone smells. I know what it’s like to be hungry and thirsty, and without shelter. I have plenty of time and I’d like to spend some of it here.”

Henry smiled. “Thank you. We’d like that.”

I started arriving at the shelter around 10:00 a.m. every day, joining the other volunteers in preparing and serving lunch. Henry encouraged me to bring Bo.

“Most of the kids here love animals. Not many of them have ever had a pet.”

The younger children who weren’t in school yet spent hours playing with Bo. He never growled when they stroked his fur a little too rough or tried to ride him like a pony. After lunch, I read to the kids. Their exhausted and stressed-out mothers warmed to me as I held their toddlers and babies on my lap. In the late afternoon, the school-aged kids returned, and I helped them with their homework, insisting they complete it before we played any of the board games I bought at Target.

Leo could usually be found at my side, eager to share everything that happened at school. His enthusiasm for kindergarten didn’t surprise me; most kids loved a secure classroom environment, the homeless even more so. Many of them didn’t own books or art supplies and they loved learning songs in music class and running around on the playground at recess.

“I’m learning how to read, Miss Anna!”

“I’m so happy that you’re excited about reading, Leo.” I hugged him. “That’s wonderful.”

He smiled so brightly I thought he would burst, but then his expression turned serious.

“I’m gonna learn real good, Miss Anna. Then I’m gonna teach my dad.”

Dean Lewis, Leo’s dad, was twenty-eight, had been out of work for almost a year, and was one of only two single dads living at the shelter. I sat down next to him after dinner. He eyed me warily. “Hi, Dean.”

He nodded. “Miss Anna.”

“How’s the job search going?”

“I haven’t found one yet.”

“What kind of work did you do before?”

“Line cook. I was at the same restaurant for seven years. Started out washin’ dishes and worked my way up.”

“What happened?”

“Owner fell on hard times. Had to sell. The new boss fired us all.”

We watched Leo play a spirited game of tag with two other children. “Dean?”

“Yeah.”

“I think I might be able to help you.”

It turned out that Dean could read a little bit. He’d memorized common words – and the entire menu at the diner where he worked – but he struggled to fill out job applications and he’d never filed for unemployment after losing his job because he couldn’t decipher the forms. A friend had helped him fill out an application at an Italian restaurant, but they fired him after three days because he couldn’t read the orders.

“Are you dyslexic?’ I asked him.

“What’s that mean?”

“The letters don’t seem like they’re in the right order.”

“No. They’re fine. I just can’t read ’em.”

“Did you graduate high school?”

He shook his head. “Ninth grade.”

“Where’s Leo’s mom?”

“No clue. She was twenty when he was born, and when he turned one, she said she couldn’t handle being a mom anymore, not that she ever acted like one. We couldn’t afford cable, but we had an old T.V. and VCR and she’d watch movies all day long. I’d come home from the restaurant and Leo would be screaming and crying, his diaper soakin’ wet, or worse. She took off one day and never came back. I had to find daycare and we already lived paycheck to paycheck. Once I lost my job, it didn’t take long to fall behind on the rent.” Dean looked down at his feet. “Leo deserves better.”

“I think Leo’s pretty lucky,” I said.

“How can you say that?”

“Because at least one of his parents cares. That’s more than some kids get.”

For the next two months, I worked with Dean every day, from the time lunch ended, until the time Leo and the other kids came home from school. Using phonics workbooks, I taught him the various combinations of letters, and soon I had him reading Goodnight Moon and Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What do You See? to the toddlers. He was often frustrated, but I pushed him hard, building his confidence by praising him whenever he mastered a challenging lesson.