“That’s why we don’t expect anyone to pay for it,” Dr. Haas said with a good-natured clap on Patrick’s shoulder. He went on to relay how expensive it was to maintain a stable of horses, a team of medical assistants, the laboratories, and the years of research that had gone into the production of the experimental serum. “Don’t worry about the money,” the doctor assured him. “We’re still in the testing stages, and we gained valuable insight from your mother’s treatment. Besides, the college treats this as a charity case. No need to worry about payment.”

Patrick felt sick. He didn’t like being beholden to anyone, but especially not Gwen. He didn’t want to be seen as a charity case. He needed to make good on this bill, or it would eat away at him and taint the purity of what he and Gwen had together.

And that he couldn’t bear.

Patrick still worried about that staggering debt as he headed out for his stint at the soup kitchen. How could a man stand proud and tall with liability like that on his soul? He tried to put the debt out of his mind as he arrived at the soup kitchen to lug water, wash tables, and swap out pots.

He hefted a five-gallon pot of chicken stew to the serving counter where old Mrs. Magill was scraping out the last of the day’s first batch. She stood aside so he could swap her empty kettle for the new one, prompting the crusty old man she had just served to complain.

“How come I got the dregs?” he growled around the butt of a cigar still clamped in his teeth. “I want another bowl.”

Mrs. Magill cowered a bit. She was too kindhearted for a gritty neighborhood like this, but Patrick didn’t mind standing up to a bully.

“Take the cigar out of your mouth when you address a lady, eat what you’ve been given, then go to the back of the line. If there’s anything left, you can have another bowl.”

“There’s never anything left!” the old man groused.

“Fancy that! Be grateful for what you got, then.” Patrick lifted the empty pot but wouldn’t take it to the kitchen until he was certain the cigar-chomper wouldn’t cause more grief for Mrs. Magill. He followed the old man through the tables to one of the few vacant spots left. It was always crowded in here, and Patrick cleared some abandoned bowls from the table, putting them in the empty kettle to carry back to the kitchen.

That was when he noticed Liam Malone leaning against the back wall of the room, watching him.

Patrick instinctively knew the hard-eyed welder wasn’t here for a bowl of stew, but he asked anyway. “Hungry?”

Liam shook his head. “My uncle said you work here on Saturdays. I need to talk.”