I kept hearing his voice in my head, seeing his face, thinking about the storm, the cold, and the way Mrs. Shaws’ shoulders had looked from behind as she’d been forced to step off my bus.
Over the next few weeks, the Shaws and I met often. I helped them with errands, dinners, and small chores.
They shared stories about their lives, the hardships they faced, and how Mrs. Shaws’ little acts of kindness” seemed to grant her favors from time to time.
A few days later, a week before Christmas, my phone rang.
“Carter,” came the voice. “It’s me.
We need your help.”
“Mrs. Shaws?” I sat up straight. “Is everything okay?”
“I can’t explain on the phone, son,” she said.
“Please come. Just trust me. I’ll send the address.”
She texted me an address to a run-down house at the edge of town.
Despite seeing the Shaws so often, this was the first time I was actually going to their home.
When I arrived, only one light was on — in the attic.
