I wasn’t unfamiliar with hunger relief organizations; I had done research on Save the Children and the Christian Children’s Fund in the past. But Feed the Need was much newer and smaller than those organizations. According to the brochure, Feed the Need sponsored 75,000 children in 23 different countries and had an annual budget of around 30 million dollars.

Sponsorships of needy children provide the funds to change their lives, the brochure proclaimed above a line of black-and-white photographs of beautiful, exotic-looking children with dirt-smeared faces and big sad eyes.

It was slick, I would give them that. But I questioned the wisdom of operating a nonprofit business in such close proximity—both literally and figuratively—with a for-profit business. Even this brochure, touting both ventures at once, seemed nervy and inappropriate to me. Lines blur. Lines that should divide the two types of endeavors like night and day.

I tucked the brochure into my briefcase, standing as the receptionist hung up the phone.

“Sorry about that,” the woman said. “May I help you?”

She looked to be about 19 or 20, attractive except for the wispy, too-long bangs that covered half of her eyes—fashionable, perhaps, but irritating nonetheless.

“Yes,” I replied, handing her a business card. “Callie Webber, here to see Wendell Smythe?”

“Of course,” she answered, taking the card. “I’ll walk you back.”

She came around the desk, revealing a slim-cut skirt and stylish, chunky-heeled shoes. She held the door for me as I stepped through into the offices of Feed the Need.

I looked around as we walked, surprised at the size of the place. It was huge, with a decor that seemed more appropriate for an upscale law firm than a charity. Still, the workers were quite busy, and there were a lot of them—milling around the cubicles, talking on the phones, typing into computers.

The receptionist explained the layout of the office space to me as we walked through. Apparently, the clothing business filled one side of the floor and the hunger relief business the other, hence the left-or-right choice in the hall by the elevator.

“And since Mr. Smythe is the president of both divisions,” she said, reaching for a door on the left, near the back end of the giant room, “his office is right here in the middle.”

She held open the door for me, then gave a little wave and left. I found myself stepping into yet another reception area; straight across from me was an identical door that was probably the entrance from the for-profit division on the other side.

The walls were lined with file cabinets, and at the massive oak desk in the center of the room sat an older woman, on the phone, with a tasteful brass plaque on her desk identifying her as Gwen Harding. She was neatly attired in a beige suit, and her only adornment was a pair of exquisite pearl earrings. She glanced up as I walked in, her manner radiating—above all else—efficiency.

“Out of the question,” she said into the phone. “Mr. Smythe’s surgery is scheduled for tomorrow morning. Perhaps a dinner session this evening?”