In the backseat, Nan led everyone in a chorus of “Over the River.” There were no rivers in sight, no white and drifting snow, just a depressing series of strip centers that all looked virtually the same—nail salons, pawnshops, coin laundries, payday loan outfits.

The Ryder Center was surrounded by chain-link fencing. Although the welcome sign proclaimed it “A Place For Hope,” an air of despair hung like Spanish moss from the trees. This was where people brought children they no longer wanted or couldn’t care for. The social workers and volunteers were passionate and committed, but sometimes there just wasn’t any substitute for family.

“Is this a regular commitment for you?” asked Darcy.

“Yep. I’ve been bringing Charlie here to help out ever since he was old enough to serve a wedge of pie.”

“That’s nice,” she said.

“Is it?” He pulled in by a small fleet of vans with the Ryder logo on the side, a silhouette of a candle cupped in two hands. “I always find myself wishing I could do more.”

“There’s always more to do,” she murmured.

“I feel sorry for the kids who live here,” said Bernie. “I’m kind of bashful about meeting them.”

“Kids are kids,” said Logan, opening the back of the SUV. “There’s usually a pretty good party going on here.”

Everyone helped carry the boxed pies to the serving area. The feasting had been going on all day, with a rotating series of kids and volunteers. Some of the children were long-term residents of Ryder House, while others came for the day. People were gathered around tables decorated with flower arrangements, crepe paper turkeys, cornucopia and candles. The buffet line moved slowly along a sideboard laden with a feast with all the trimmings. At one end of the room, a bluegrass ensemble played background music.

“Ready to help out?” Logan asked, handing out aprons to Charlie, the nieces and nephews. “We’re on the pie detail.”

“Okay.” Like his cousin Bernie, Charlie seemed timid around the other kids, though eager to help out. They went to the dessert table and got to work, carefully placing small slices of pie on white china plates and setting them out for people to eat.

There were smiles and subdued thank-yous, although an air of melancholy pervaded the atmosphere. Some of the older kids seemed chastened by the understanding that they were receiving charity. Logan served a slice of berry pie to a boy who looked to be about Charlie’s age. His clothes were clean but worn, and he had a peculiar world-weariness that made him seem much older. He furtively took his dessert, mumbled a thank-you and shuffled away to a table.

I will never complain again about my life, thought Logan.