Let me tell you, living in a shelter means you spend a lot of time standing in line and waiting. First, we stand in line and wait to take showers, then we wait to wash and dry our clothes. Mama says it’s a good way to meet people, though. Back home, when we’d go to the Piggly Wiggly to do our grocery shopping, by the time we got to the checkout lady, Mama was best friends with everybody in line. And she loved going to the Just Like Home Laundromat to catch up on all the town gossip.

Here, though, people don’t seem so friendly or talkative.

By the time we get ourselves and our clothes clean, there’s a new lady at the front desk. Her name is Jean. She smiles a lot. She gives us meal tickets for the Sixth Street Community Kitchen. “It’s nothing fancy, but it’ll fill you up,” she says with a laugh. She also gives us directions to the Christian Center, where we can get winter coats, gloves, and hats. “Just show them this,” she says, handing Mama a slip of paper with a bright-green stamp on it, “and they’ll let you pick out a few things for free. Can’t beat that!” Jean has a lot of enthusiasm for her job.

We meet Daddy out front. Dylan wraps his arms around Daddy’s legs like he’s never going to let go. Daddy looks so tired. My heart hurts. I go stand next to him, touch the sleeve of his jacket. “Hey, Daddy,” I say.

Daddy gives me a quick, sideways hug. “Hey, peanut,” he says. “Take your little brother’s hand.” Gently, he peels Dylan’s arms from his legs.

We wait in line for the right bus to take to the Christian Center. I don’t mind the waiting in this line so much. I love looking at those high, faraway mountains.

When we finally get to the Christian Center, we wait, again, while the guy working there unlocks the back room. Mama hands him the piece of paper with the bright-green stamp while Daddy tries to keep Dylan from running in and out of the clothes racks.

The man pushes open the door. “Here you go,” he says.

Mama’s face falls just the tiniest bit. No nice, neat clothes racks in here. Instead, clothes piled up in boxes without rhyme or reason. The room smells like mothballs and bleach.

Mama pulls a smile out of her pocket anyway. “Thank you,” she says.