Marcus wasn’t there for charity—just dinner. He told himself that every night, because if he called it “charity,” he’d hear his own pride crack. So he waited after the food bank closed, standing near the curb, phone in hand, acting like he had somewhere to be.
He didn’t ask. He didn’t hover. He just watched for leftovers—an extra sandwich, fruit someone didn’t want, the kind of “accidental” kindness people offer when they can’t look you in the eye.
That night he saw a black grocery bag tucked behind a donation bin, hidden like someone wanted it missed.
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