I pulled my gaze from the glorious room and settled it on him as he slid the box onto a pew and came to meet me.

“I just came to return the favour,” I said, lifting the coffee toward him and hoping he didn’t hate the lidless paper cup I’d found in Sylvia’s kitchen.

On the walk to the church, I’d grown worried the coffee had gone cold, but Stephen guzzled it back and came up for air beaming. “This is amazing. Am I tasting…orange? Where’d you get this?”

“I made it.” An awkward shrug. “Freshly ground beans, a pinch of sugar, a squeeze of an orange slice, a sprinkle of cinnamon…”

I glanced up at the gilded cut-outs across the front of the balcony. Each panel had its own artwork, and it reminded me of the copper pictures that had hung on the walls of Mikal’s home.

“Those were put in by the original builders back in 1875,” Stephen said when he noticed me staring. “They’re hollow behind the panels. The early pastors wanted to be able to store things in them, but most people nowadays don’t even realize they’re cupboards.” He paused to sip all that was left of his coffee. He went on to say a few more things about the church building’s history, but I found myself picturing this sanctuary full on a Sunday morning, with quiet hymns being sung into the sky, and a cool breeze coming in through the wide-open doors at the back.

“Do you have any family in Waterloo?” Stephen’s question pulled me from my daze.

I really hated it when people asked that question, but I answered anyway, “I have a brother and a sister who both live around here: Kaley and Winston. Kaley lives with me, and Winston…” I shrugged. “Lives somewhere.”

“Somewhere?” Stephen cocked a brow.

“He took off in December.” I looked away, eyes falling on an end table with a particularly interesting doily.

But Stephen’s face changed. “Do you mean Winston Bell?”

My attention snapped back. The look on my face must have told Stephen enough, because he set his coffee cup down on the end table and folded his arms.

“Have you…do you know…” I wasn’t sure I wanted to ask, not that I could spit out a proper question anyway.

“Um…yeah, I know him. Our church serves at a soup kitchen downtown for the homeless. He’s come in a few times.”

It took me a few tries to digest that word.

Homeless.

I bit my lips together, refusing to let it sink in, refusing to let it grow roots in my heart. Those roots would sting when they were ripped out again.

Winston needed to take charity from a church to be able to eat?