They lost a couple of kids in the aisles of miraculous junk, and Francis had to send out bigger kids to find them and bring them back, holding the treasures they'd found to their chests. Lester kept going back for more old-timers, more mothers, more stragglers, operating his ferry service until they were all indoors in the workshop. "This is the place," Francis said. "We'll stay indoors here tonight. Toilets are there and there -- orderly lines, no shoving." "What about food?" asked a man with a small boy sleeping over his shoulder. "This isn't the Red Cross, Al," Francis snapped. "We'll organize food for ourselves in the morning." Perry whispered in his ear. Francis shook his head, and Perry whispered some more. "There will be food in the morning. This is Perry. It's his place. He's going to go to Costco for us when they open." The crowd cheered and a few of the women hugged him. Some of the men shook his hand. Perry blushed. Suzanne smiled. These people were good people. They'd been through more than Suzanne could imagine. It felt right that she could help them -- like making up for every panhandler she'd ignored and every passed-out drunk she'd stepped over. There were no blankets, there were no beds. The squatters slept on the concrete floor. Young couples spooned under tables. Children snuggled between their parents, or held onto their mothers. As the squatters dossed down and as Suzanne walked past them to get to her car her heart broke a hundred times. She felt like one of those Depression-era photographers walking through an Okie camp, a rending visual at each corner. Back at her rented condo, she found herself at the foot of her comfortable bed with its thick duvet -- she liked keeping the AC turned up enough to snuggle under a blanket -- and the four pillows. She was in her jammies, but she couldn't climb in between those sheets. She couldn't. And then she was back in her car with all her blankets, sheets, pillows, big towels -- even the sofa cushions, which the landlord was not going to be happy about -- and speeding back to the workshop. She let herself in and set about distributing the blankets and pillows and towels, picking out the families, the old people. A woman -- apparently able-bodied and young, but skinny -- sat up and said, "Hey, where's one for me?" Suzanne recognized the voice. The junkie from the IHOP. Lester's friend. The one who'd grabbed her and cursed her. She didn't want to give the woman a blanket. She only had two left and there were old people lying on the bare floor. "Where's one for me?" the woman said more loudly. Some of the sleepers stirred. Some of them sat up. Suzanne was shaking. Who the hell was she to decide who got a blanket? Did being rude to her at the IHOP disqualify you from getting bedding when your house burned down? Suzanne gave her a blanket, and she snatched one of the sofa cushions besides. *It's why she's still alive,* Suzanne thought. *How she's survived.*