By midmorning Silas was pulling vines from the outside wall while Adeline swept the interior, and a small crowd had actually gathered along the road. A dozen people at least, many holding up phones, recording as if poverty were entertainment.
It was humiliating in a way that cut deeper than hunger. Poverty was private. This was spectacle.
“Silas!” someone called out.
It was Dale Pritchard, a man Silas had worked with years earlier.
“You need help, buddy? You can’t seriously think that thing is livable.”
“We’ll make it work,” Silas called back without stopping.
“Come on, man, be reasonable. You two should go to the shelter. Apply for senior housing. Anything but this. This is crazy.”
“Mind your business, Dale.”
“I’m trying to help.”
“Then leave us alone.”
Dale shook his head and climbed back into his car, but not before taking one more photo.
Inside the shack, Adeline had to stop sweeping because tears burned behind her eyes. Not because of the mockery itself—life had given her worse—but because she could see what it was doing to Silas. His shoulders were tight. His movements had grown harsher as he yanked the vines free.
He had spent thirty years taking care of that town. He had helped so many of those people. He had fixed their children’s lockers, shoveled snow from the school parking lot, changed light bulbs in the gym before basketball games, patched pipes in winter so classrooms could stay open.
And now they were treating him like a circus act.
She stepped outside.
“Silas, let’s take a break.”
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