I saw Miss Inez struggling down the sidewalk with her walker and two heavy bags—one filled with canned food and bread, the other with something warm wrapped in a towel. She looked tired but determined. When I crossed the street to help, she smiled and said, “I’m fine. Just bringing dinner to the Mitchell boy. His mom’s in the hospital.” She had taped a note to the container: “You are important.”
We walked together to the boy’s house. He looked worn out, maybe twelve or thirteen, and hadn’t had a visitor in days.
