"What is your problem?" he yelled at me. He was driving me to the library to read while he slopped soup into the trays of the hopeless or whatever it was he did. Rain poured down and I cursed my lack of planning, having nothing but a light sweater.

"I just don't like it, OK? I can't handle it!"

"Don't you even care? These people need our help. You can give it to them."

I was silent.

"You can't catch it, you know. You won't leave and find out the super has locked us out of the apartment, your teeth are loose and you have scabies."

"Oh come on. You're just there because Kristin is there. If you broke up tomorrow you wouldn't go back."

"That's bullshit. And quit blaming me for your issues. You’re just afraid."

"I never denied that, I just-"

"You 'just' don't have any empathy, that's all. Christ, Kate, sometimes I wonder if you care about anyone but yourself."

We pulled up to the curb in front of the library and stopped with a jolt.

"I'll be by to pick you up in two hours. Be ready," he said, not looking at me.

I stared at him for a moment but he never looked my way. I sighed and got out into the rain. I didn't watch him peel out, and refused to react when he splashed a large puddle onto my back.

Inside I dripped on the carpet while a librarian watched me with unease. I didn't blame her; I was soaked. You didn't want a wet sponge - nor a woman resembling one - near the books.

Daniel was wrong. It wasn't a lack of empathy, it was too much. I cared so much for these people that I was afraid I wouldn't be able to help them at all, that my work would be emptying the ocean with a bucket. I'd rather feel bad about my inability to empty the ocean while I was on dry land than drowning in the depths, so I stayed away. How can you combat poverty and old age? I wasn't a politician. I wasn't a philanthropist.

Daniel had once told me that if he could give someone a meal and a smile, then that was worth it. These people didn't have much. Therefore they didn't need much to make it better. I would bet my life that Kristin told him that. Perfect Kristin.

But that didn't mean it wasn't true.

I squelched over to the pay phone and called a cab.

CHAPTER TWO

I had expected the homeless to have colorful names like Soupbone Ike and Princess Kelly. I expected them to have stories about boxcars and pie. I expected them to be like homeless on TV, brave and cheerful.