Aria had found this place in one of her searches on the library computers the week before. She had become accustomed to eating only one meal a day, if she were lucky. For the last two days, that one meal a day had been the soup and breadsticks offered here. She felt shy to go there, guilty even to be accepting charity. But this place was such a comfort. There was nothing fancy about it. The linoleum flooring was the same that had been put there in the 1950s. It was turning yellow and the extent of its pomp was a floral design that looked like it could have been copied from the draperies at an old age home. Plastic folding tables were covered with large sheets of paper that had been clumsily ripped. And plastic chairs, like the ones that had been ordered in bulk for her school cafeteria, were arranged around them.

A long line usually formed out the door and down the street, a line that boasted all kinds of people. Some who had not seen a shower in months, whose clothes were torn and fetid. Others who looked like they had simply walked off a job site to take opportunistic advantage of a meal they didn’t have to pay for. When Aria reached the front of the line, she could see a collection of giant stainless steel vats, three flavors of soup to choose from each day. Their fragrances mixed into one, like a complex curry. Next to the soups were plastic tubs full of breadsticks left over from the day before. Aria reveled in their toasted and yeasty aroma.

Each person in line grabbed one of the brightly colored, plastic cafeteria trays, and told whichever staff member who happened to step forward from the disarray of multitasking which soup they wanted. They were handed a generous ladle of that soup in a large styrofoam cup, a plastic spoon with a napkin, three breadsticks and two handfuls of salted peanuts. On the way to the seating area, a row of self-service water jugs and paper cups lined the counter. Some days, Aria was lucky enough to find a table. Other days, she had to find a place on the sidewalk.