Page 53 of Lennox Lane

“You’re entering my place of work, my place of service, my baby, and one of the few locations on this earth where I will not hesitate to embarrass you in front of God and a pallet of canned goods.”

“Understood.”

“No hacking anybody.”

“I wasn’t planning to.”

“No threatening anybody.”

“What if they deserve it?”

“Lennox.”

“Fine.”

“No telling people I’m Mrs. Jackson.”

His smile came slowly.

Lane pointed at him. “I mean it.”

“I’ll keep it internal.”

“That’s where the delusion should live.”

He laughed and climbed out.

Inside, the food bank buzzed before opening. Staff moved through the front pantry area with clipboards and carts; volunteers tied aprons; someone in the back called out about the bread delivery; and from the kitchen came the scent of onions, peppers, garlic, and something warm enough to make Lennox regret skipping breakfast. Everywhere he looked, there was movement with purpose. Not chaos, but organized care.

A woman with silver locs and bright red glasses looked up from a stack of intake forms and broke into a smile. “There she is.”

Lane’s face softened instantly. “Morning, Ms. Cora.”

Ms. Cora hugged Lane hard, then turned sharp eyes on Lennox. “And who is this tall drink of questionable decisions?”

Lane sighed. “This is Lennox.”

Lennox held out his hand. “Ma’am.”

Ms. Cora looked at his hand, then at his face. “You the one with the Depends?” she asked as Lane closed her eyes and somewhere behind the counter, somebody snorted.

Lennox lowered his hand slowly. “My reputation precedes me.”

“Unfortunately,” Lane muttered.

Ms. Cora took his hand at last and shook it. “I’m Cora. I run the pantry floor and keep Lane from pretending she can do seventeen jobs with one body.”

“I do not pretend,” Lane said.

“You lie before breakfast.” Ms. Cora looked back at Lennox. “You here to help or to make trouble?”

“Both if the day allows, but mostly help.”

“Hmph. At least he’s honest.”

Lane led him through introductions after that. Marisol, the operations manager, was younger than Lennox expected. She was maybe in her early thirties, wearing a sleek bun with a tablet in one hand and the alert focus of a woman who could tell by sound alone whether a delivery truck had backed in wrong. Andre ran logistics and wore a brace on one knee but moved like stopping was offensive to him. Tasha coordinated volunteers. Malik handled community outreach, and the kitchen team was led by Miss Dottie, a round-cheeked woman with kind eyes and the energy of someone who could pray over food or throw a ladle with equal accuracy.

By the time Lane gathered everyone near the front pantry, Lennox had been hugged twice, side-eyed three times, and asked whether he knew how to lift with his legs by a man old enough to have lifted furniture before Lennox’s parents met.