Regan arrived before Lucas at Sunrise Center, though he’d texted her and said he was running late. She introduced herself to Willa March, who was happy to give her a tour of the facility while they waited. Willa was sixty, tall and slender, with blue eyes and gray hair.
The homeless shelter was on the edge of downtown, more than a mile east from the northern boundary of the NAU campus. It was in a semi-industrial area, away from homes, near public transportation, an urgent-care facility, and two churches. Willa had done an excellent job making the facility look inviting. It had once been a church and small school. The church was now the dining and recreation hall, the garden that separated it from the school was clean and well-maintained, with several tall trees in the center, and the school had been converted to both offices and dorm-style rooms for men. A building in the back—Willa said it had once been a strip mall—had been refashioned into small two-room apartments for families, mostly women with children.
“We have four full-time staff members, including myself, and dozens of volunteers. A drug counselor is here through a county program two days a week,” Willa said. “We can have a maximum of forty men in the dormitory, and six families in the apartments. I have a temporary permit for two four-bed dorm-style rooms for women downstairs, but usually the women here come in with their children. One person is on duty at night, and we have a staff suite.”
“The facility is impressive. Clean and functional.”
“We’ve accomplished so much from our humble beginnings. The city and the county provide some of our funding, churches provide most of the volunteers and help with the food program, and we have generous donors. Our clients work to keep the facility clean.”
Lucas approached them as they were talking in the garden. “Sorry I’m late. Hi, Ms. March.”
He glanced at Regan, and she knew that he’d found something, but he didn’t say anything.
“Willa. I told you,” the director said.
Because it was a pleasant afternoon, in spite of a steady wind, they sat outside at a picnic table. Regan noted that four men were gardening on the opposite side of the yard, and two young mothers were watching five children play on a jungle gym. Regan stared a moment too long, memories of her watching Chase laughing as he swooshed down the tall slide at their old neighborhood park. The feelings of grief and sorrow were momentarily overwhelming. She almost got up to leave, but she buried it. Pushing it aside gave her a headache.
She also felt something unfamiliar, a bittersweet sensation that swept over her. Chase was gone, she’d never hug him or watch him play or see his eyes light up when they went to baseball games. But she could remember. For the first time, her memories weren’t solely clouded by pain.
She averted her eyes, redirected her attention fully to the matter at hand. If anyone noticed her emotions, they didn’t say anything.
Lucas said, “Did you listen to the podcast this week?”
“Yes,” Willa said. “You want to talk to me about the gentleman who called in.”
“Yes. Do you know who he was?”
“I believe I do. I haven’t seen him here in a while, but I know he has a steady job. Travels for work.”
“Who is he?”
“I don’t feel comfortable saying, considering he didn’t share his name with you.”
Regan said, “But you do remember him coming to you about Abernathy sleeping near the tracks.”
She nodded. “He—I’ll call him Doe, for clarity—had lost so much in such a short time. He needed us, to help him get back on his feet. He could have gone the way of Joseph, all too easily. Loss, pain, suffering—it can destroy a soul. Some people never find their way out of the abyss.”
“Like Joseph Abernathy,” Regan said.
“Yes. I don’t know his story. He never shared it.” She reached up and played with a crucifix hanging from a simple gold chain around her neck. “But I saw it on occasion, because I have worked with men like Joseph for more than thirty years. My father had been in Vietnam. He came home a different man, turned to alcohol, left. I don’t say he left us, though he did and my mother resented him and her plight, but he didn’t really leave us. He left because he felt he had no hope, no future, and drinking numbed the pain. He died. I didn’t know until years later. I say he died of hopelessness. But he drank himself to death. Joseph was doing the same thing, but I felt that, with patience and firm boundaries, he might see a path out. We don’t allow alcohol or drugs here but take in those suffering from addiction. They come here, try to get clean, we give them help—counseling, medical attention, food, fellowship—but men like Joseph can only take it for a short time before they leave to drink. It was a cycle. But I would—we would—never turn him away for a meal. So I saw him regularly back then.”
“But he often left, correct?” Lucas asked. “He didn’t live here year-round.”
“No, he would jump on a freight train and disappear for months at a time, usually in the winter months,” Willa said. “But three years...that’s too long. I agree with Doe. Something must have happened to him.”
Regan steered the conversation back to Candace. “Candace volunteered here for several years.”
“Yes. I adored her. She was kind and compassionate and would have made a wonderful nurse. Maybe she was too compassionate. I know, that sounds odd coming from someone like me, because I try to always see the good in people, but I also recognize that some people are beyond help. You can only hold out your hand so many times for people to grab onto before you get bit one time too many. I told Candace to call the police if Joseph showed up on campus again. Not because I thought he would hurt anyone but because, if confronted, he could become belligerent. Someone could get hurt—or someone could hurt him.”