Johnny has lazy eyelids. He looks like he’s still dreaming while he scoops and taps off scalloped potatoes onto the main course square on the lunch tray, handing it to next in line. I serve smooshed slices of unsold baked goods that arrive to the shelter in crates. I’m a volunteer, and Johnny lives here.
I asked Johnny, “How Are You Today?” as I passed him to grab another tray of desserts, and he turned to me. He said, “Everyday above ground is a good day, miss.”
There was orange sunlight that day that filled up the entire dining room. The residents peeked out the windows. Direct light through a south facing window put a spotlight on a woman resting her cheek on her crossed arms. She wore a black raincoat.
