I stared at him.
“Walter.”
“Not to Caleb.”
“Good.”
“To the nonprofit.”
He had spent months working with attorneys and accountants.
Bennett’s Grill would become a community space.
Half would operate as a pay-what-you-can café during weekday afternoons, providing meals to children and families without requiring anyone to prove they were struggling.
The back rooms would host support groups, tutoring, developmental play programs, and family-resource meetings.
No child would be singled out.
No child would carry a special card.
No parent would have to explain their hardship in front of a line of strangers.
There would simply be food.
Tables.
People.
Help.
Caleb stared at the drawings.
“What’s it called?”
Walter looked at him.
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“Whether you approve the sign.”
Someone pulled away a sheet hanging across the wall.
Behind it was a painted sign.
THE RED DRESS TABLE
Underneath, in smaller letters:
THERE IS ALWAYS ROOM FOR ONE MORE.
