“Well thank you, but I’m lucky to have this place, too. It feels good to give back, yes, but I feel like I’m getting a lot in return.” She stopped and bit her lip. “I’m sorry, I’m going on and on about this—I can talk about this place for hours.”

Olivia shook her head.

“No problem. Where do we start?”

Jamila led her over to one of the counters.

“Okay, on a scale of one to ten, how good of a cook are you? With one being, like, you can barely open a can and heat up the food inside, and ten at, say, you’re a restaurant chef. Be honest, no judgment.”

Olivia laughed.

“Probably somewhere around a three? Maybe a four, in a pinch? I can definitely open up cans of food and heat them up, but I don’t quite know the difference between what it means to sauté something or braise it.”

Jamila steered her in front of a big bowl.

“Okay, perfect—tonight we’re making turkey meatballs with mashed potatoes and sautéed spinach. I’m going to put you on meatball duty; no chopping or sautéing involved, you’re just going to mix together a bunch of ingredients and then roll it all into meatballs. How does that sound?”

Olivia laughed to herself. This was definitely not what she thought she’d be doing tonight when she woke up this morning.

“That sounds great,” she said.

Two hours later, Olivia’s feet hurt from standing in the same place for hours in her far-too-pointy shoes, her hands were ice cold from rolling what felt like millions of meatballs, and her eyes stung from all of the onions that the woman next to her had chopped. But when she looked at the forty sealed containers of meatballs, potatoes, and spinach, she felt like she’d really accomplished something.

“Great work tonight, team,” Jamila said as they moved the containers from the counters to the refrigerators.

Olivia dropped her apron in the spot where all the other volunteers dropped theirs, took off her gloves, and washed her hands.

“Thanks for coming tonight, Olivia,” Jamila said as Olivia dried her hands.

“It was my pleasure,” Olivia said. And she meant it, too.

“I hope we’ll see you again?” Jamila raised an eyebrow at her.

Olivia nodded and pulled her phone out of her purse.

“Absolutely. I’ll try for next Wednesday.”

She went to order a car, but Jamila stopped her.

“Do you need a ride home?”

Olivia looked up at her.

“I do, but I’m probably out of your way—are you sure?”

Jamila shrugged.

“I’ve gotten too many rides from other people in my life to care about going a little while out of my way. Give me a second to lock up.”

As they drove off, Jamila asked the question she’d known was coming.

“Is your car in the shop?”