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There was a cold weight in my stomach.

A ghost of what I once knew.

It was strange to meet it again here, in an alleyway behind a soup kitchen with a burlap sack of vegetables hung over one shoulder.

It was an echo of itself, a scar from hunger pains of the past.

The icy chill in the air of Fowling's late autumn only urged it on.

It had rained recently, this alleyway stunk of the damp I once feared.

It was hard to get dry around this time of year.

I swallowed, feeling dizzy.

That wasn't my struggle anymore.

I had assignments now and tasks I'd set myself to get my education back on track.

I'd been living with Brock for a year now and while things had come around for me, I couldn't move on.

Not from this.

It was the first cold snap of the year and without a dry place to stay with hot food, someone could die out there.

Someone might regardless.

But we'd never know. Never hear of it, to everyone else in this city it would've been just another homeless person freezing to death.

My hackles raised, a growl tangled in my throat.

I didn't expect that.

There was anger there.

I put a hand to the black collar around my neck.

I traced my claw over the fine engraving on the tag.

Mutt.

It calmed me.

I needed to be here.

The guilt would've eaten me alive otherwise.

I sighed. My breath misted in front of me.

"That all of them?" A soft voice asked behind me. Charles, a volunteer who'd decided to pitch in on short notice.

"Yeah." I put the sack of vegetables down by the door and fished the keys out of my pocket. This place belonged to Brock and his company, it was plastered with their brand.

A necessary evil.

It was one of the first things I'd weaseled out of him, and he was glad to leave it in my hands so long as it didn't consume me.

I was still his pet, after all.

I felt uneasy as I unlocked the door, distracted by the memory of hunger in my chest.

Charles hefted the sack and carried it through to the kitchen.

He was a blonde bear with rimmed glasses, middle aged and stocky. He was dressed in a grey vest over a white sweater to stave off the cold, and had a thick backpack which he slipped off and placed on the ground with a hefty thud.

"I brought something extra." He hunched over his bag and dug out an armful of books.

My heart panged.

"I'm an English teacher." He piled the books beside him and reached for more. "Curriculum just changed and my school wanted to throw these out." He chuckled. "But I knew better. We can put them out for people to take."

"Wow." I knelt beside him. "What a great idea. Thank you."

He stared me in the eyes, a gentle smile on his face. "No thanks needed, they're not for you."

I smirked. "You know what I mean."

"Of course." He grunted as he stood, clutching a stack of books.

I led him to the cafeteria around the front, where we worked quickly to turn on the heating and unlock the doors.

I left a sign on the pathway outside.

Free food and shelter for all. No questions asked.

Once prepared, we started working in the kitchen.

I lifted the sack of vegetables to a table, pulled out a cutting board and a sharp knife as he gave our huge soup vat a good rinse.

"You help out much?" I asked to help pass the time.

"Whenever I have the energy to."

"Good man." I started pulling vegetables out of the sack.

"How'd you end up running a soup kitchen at your age?" He sounded more than just curious, perhaps a touch of worry too. I couldn't give a straight answer, so I deflected.

"It's important work and someone's gotta do it, especially here."

"Oh?" He tilted his head. "I'm new here, so you'll have to explain."

"Fowling's dumb." I sniffed as I sheared off the root tip of an onion. "All the soup kitchens and shelters are sponsored by big companies trying to make themselves look sympathetic." I halved the onion and frowned as its juice dripped across the cutting board. "It's taken the power out of most people's hands. It's hard to help out if you want to, the businesses make charity workers jump through so many hoops just to chip in." I wrinkled my nose as the onion stung my eyes. "Most places won't even let you donate old veggies. We're the only one."

Charles clicked his tongue. "What a waste." He sounded deeply annoyed.

There was so much compassion in him that it felt easy to open up.

"Uhuh. I hated this city so much when I was on the streets." I snorted, passion backed my words. "But now I despise it. Utterly."

"Mmm." A frown crossed the bear's face. "You were homeless?"

I hated that question.

I nodded. "Kicked out, parents had no money."

He eyed my clothes and the collar around my neck. Then he hesitated with a question so plainly in his mouth.

He spoke it. "Someone offer you a second chance?"

A spike of panic rose in my chest. "Yeah." I chewed my lip, a little quiet. Nobody was meant to know about Brock.

"There's no shame in that. I'm glad you took it."

"Not ashamed, just... it's a bit complicated." I traced the engraving of my dog tag, trying to ease my nerves.

"Right, right." He started filling the huge pot with water. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"Uh. Can't, really." I was being too obvious, but I'd never kept secrets like this before. Never had to.

He cast another glance to my collar, then lifted his eyes to my face and gave a knowing nod. "Was it a year ago?"

I tilted my head, surprised.

He couldn't know.

Surely not.

I grunted, hoping he wouldn't take it as acknowledgment that he was correct.

"Suppose that explains Brock Fletcher's change of heart." He snickered.

My heart skipped a beat.

No.

I raked my teeth across my lip, unsure what to do. He'd thrown me for a loop that he guessed right. "Perceptive," I muttered.

He must've put it together from all the company branding in the kitchen.

"I won't tell." He wagged an eyebrow at me. "Seems like you're doing what you can to help, wouldn't wish you any grief." Relief soothed my racing heart. There was something about him I could trust. An earnestness.

"Yeah." I sighed. "Not as straight forward as I thought that would be."

Charles turned off the tap and heaved the pot of water to the stove. "It never is."

That struck me the wrong way.

It bothered me, deeply. I'm not sure why. I even agreed with the sentiment.

Maybe I was thrown off balance by him knowing about Brock.

"Doesn't have to be," I shot back. "Enough money could fix all poverty."

"Sure." Charles squinted at the spice rack beside the stove. "But how do you get the money going to the right places?"

"That's not what I mean." I tore the skin off of the onion, the faintest touch of frustration in my voice.

"Hmm." He raised an eyebrow at me, a little taken aback.

I wasn't sure what to say. Wasn't even sure what I meant by that.

I wanted to walk that one back.

The stove burner clicked as he started the flame.

I started chopping the onion.

"You know it's not just your fight, right?" Charles asked, his voice a little softer.

"Of course." I winced, onion juices burned my eyes.

"It's not uncommon for people who get another chance to feel guilty." He rubbed at his nose. "It's similar to survivor's guilt."

He spoke like he was reading the line out of a textbook.

I wrinkled my nose.

A spark of frustration caught in my chest.

I vented it on the next onion in the sack.

"I won't push, it's important to talk about is all." He backed off.

If he wanted me to talk...

Ohoho. I could damn well talk.

"I slept in an alley. I almost froze to death. Almost starved too many times to count. I had friends get roped into all kinds of shit, some of them are still out there and the ones that aren't are dead." There was a guttural husk in my voice. "So I will do everything I can, for as long as I have to until the problem is solved."

A sad look crossed the bear's face.

I could only read it as pity.

Fire blossomed in my chest.

"I spend my free time bartering with hotels, with supermarkets, with charities, with pharmacies. Farmers, tailors, churches. For anything to give away to save a life. Shelter, food, medicine, clothes. I have a fucking salary." I cleaved straight through a potato. "And every free cent of it I give back."

Charles drew in a long breath. "That's really admirable," he mumbled, quiet. Like he was ashamed.

Good.

"This is where I spend the rest of my free time." I snorted. "And this is what I will do with myself until I don't have to because the problem's gone."

He winced. "I see." He paused for a long moment. "Just make sure you're looking after yourself too."

"I'm fine." I squinted at him. "I'm some corporate big shot's favorite toy so I get everything I want." I was ready to spit flames. "Except the solution to all this."

He scrubbed at his face. "Don't take this the wrong way, but. It's... unhealthy, to be so..." He trailed off.

I gave him a wild-eyed stare.

"I'm here to help." He raised his hands. "The burden's a lot to bear. Too much even, so--"

"Like you would know." Spite ran so hot it dripped embers from my words.

Charles drew in a deep breath.

I eyed him fiercely, eager for a response so I could tear into him.

"Alex... Mutt, look." He took off his glasses and frowned down at the lenses. He exhaled, exasperated. Then cleaned his glasses with his sweater. He glanced at me before his gaze withered. "I uh, do know." He averted his eyes. "What it's like, actually." He softened his voice. Shame haunted his words like he was melting into it.

I opened my mouth.

And shut it.

My eagerness evaporated.

The fire in my chest doused immediately.

I- wow.

I was such a shithead.

Wow.

I furrowed my brow and tried to say something.

Couldn't.

He sighed and stirred the pot of water.

I was reeling.

Guilt squeezed my belly.

"Sorry to hear," I mumbled and turned back to the cutting board.

I got halfway through chopping a carrot when he sucked in a shaky breath and said. "It's alright. I get it."

I shook my head.

I hadn't the words to say what I meant.

I wasn't used to that.

I really, really wasn't.

This was new for me.

"Some things in life are so painful. Too painful, it..." He scrunched up his face. "Can make us bitter."

I almost shot back immediately. That I wasn't bitter, just foolish.

But what was I trying to prove to him before?

That he couldn't understand me? My experiences? What gain could there be in that?

Did I really want my suffering to be validated comparatively?

That I had it worse than him, ergo it meant something profound about me.

I was stumped.

There was a block in my head.

A hurdle I had to force myself over.

It was simple.

He was right.

I think I had.

I think I was bitter, and I was trying to prove that it was rightful.

I side-eyed him, then hung my head.

There were things I needed to say to him. To clarify something, to apologize better. To let him know he was right, and that meant something important to me.

But I hadn't the words to say it.

I wasn't sure it'd come out right.

So I said nothing.

Neither did he.

We worked in shared silence, only broken up by the rhythmic tap of my knife and the bubbling of our soup.

I felt shitty.

The onions made it worse.

I wasn't sure how to deal with this.

I'd gotten stupid.

Of course I had.

Had my wits sanded down by the comfort and luxury Brock had given me. And I hated that.

I had to watch myself. Force myself not to fall into bad habits and even worse thoughts.

It was awkward and painfully so.

But there was something grating in my skull.

That this experience was proof of something.

Something I expected to find one day, but not like this.

That I wasn't who I once was.

I also wasn't sure where that left me.

I was changing, but I wasn't sure I liked what I was becoming.

That the life Brock had handed me on a golden platter left me with little grit.

That I clutched my pain around my shoulders as if to prove maybe I was deserving, or that I wasn't seduced and blinded by the luxuries around me.

But I had been.

My presumption was proof of that.

And that made me uneasy.

Charles sighed and shrunk inside himself, like he was guilty or ashamed he'd told me what he had.

My heart panged.

Nobody should be ashamed of their triumph.

That he'd gone from homeless, to this. A teacher. Charitable and willing to help. His presence here spoke riches of his integrity. A man so earnest he wouldn't let me get away with whatever bullshit I'd tried to peddle.

That he'd disarmed me without rising to the conflict.

Just a harsh truth that left him hollow.

'Us.' He had said. 'It can make us bitter.'

Not a wisp of bitterness remained with him.

I took in a weighty breath.

The longer I sat with it, the more obvious it was.

Of course I was bitter.

Furious even.

I could still feel the cruel and ceaseless touch of winter under my fur.

I could still feel the hunger gnawing at my belly.

I could still feel the rage churning within me.

That I'd been cast aside.

Made to suffer because I cost too much to keep.

And all these feelings rallied together in a whirl of hurt which I tried to soften.

But I couldn't.

How could I? How could anyone who'd endured it?

All my prospects in life, all I'd believed I'd become was ripped away the moment I was forced to fend for myself against the pressures of our world.

And all my best efforts at the time could only mitigate the sensation of being crushed under a boot, but never end it.

Until I was scraped off of the floor by Brock.

I bit my tongue.

Perhaps I was bitter about that too.

I wasn't sure.

But I didn't want to be.

Didn't want to feel any of this. None of this violent discontent. Not for Charles. Not for Brock. Not for me or my past.

But it haunted me in the quiet moments.

In the hard moments.

And now, in a moment of embarrassment.

But I didn't want to be that way.

Not at all.

As we worked, people had started to gather in the cafeteria side of the building. They entered, shivering and uncertain, found a seat and came at ease as they talked amongst themselves.

A few of them picked over the books Charles left, it tickled my heart to see a young couple huddled up in the corner. A serval and a crow, heads resting against each other as they paged through a novel together.

I exhaled, guilt lifted from my shoulders.

This was what mattered.

Not my foolishness.

These people needed to eat.

So I tucked my rage aside, swallowed it though it burned and finished cutting vegetables.

I wanted to speak to Charles.

Learn more about him.

Learn from him.

I wish I had his calmness.

Perhaps he would show me how.

I scraped the last of the veggies into the soup.

Charles stirred it one last time.

I couldn't look him in the eye.

He placed his spoon on the counter.

I hadn't found the words I wanted, but I still felt I should explain before I lost the chance.

"You were ri-"

The bear put his arms around me.

There was strength in him, but he didn't touch it. His hold was firm but tender and soft. Restrained, like he cradled a butterfly in his paws.

I could feel it, an undercurrent in the physical sensation of his touch.

He was holding back. Bracing like he himself was afraid of being crushed.

I embraced him, my face buried in his chest.

I knew that fear like the back of my hand.

It was the same way I recoiled from the idea of someone going hungry.

How I'd change anything in my power to ensure they ate.

It was the residue of an agony shared.

Empathy.

He held me now the way he wished he was held in his youth.

He held me now, knowing this was how I wanted to be held.

That on those cold nights, this was what I needed.

I could hear his heart beating at a relaxed pace. I exhaled, tension evaporated from my shoulders.

We were as silent as we'd been for the last twenty minutes, but the floodgates had opened. Every second in this hug felt like a thousand earnest words.

Like we'd witnessed parts of each other's souls and now I knew something so core and true to his being that he ceased to be without it.

That he knew the same of me.

It was the softest balm to the wounds of the past.

And in that moment, I was calm.

"Thank you," I said.

He tussled my ears, like my mother used to when she was proud of me.

I felt like a child again, but that wasn't a point of pain.

It felt welcoming, to be touched again like that.

I sniffed.

A cheery smile filled his face. "Got a while before the soup's finished. Let's go keep 'em company, eh?"

I fought down tears, pushed a grin onto my face and followed him into the growing crowd beyond.

Where I felt understood, where I could relate to those around me.

I needed that.

But a feeling chased me through the night.

That ghost of my hunger, like a scratching in my throat. A false ache in my belly.

I struggled to be social with it on my mind.

Because I wasn't like them, not anymore.

I had everything. But their hunger was as real as my guilt.

And that felt inescapable.