Chapter 3

Matthew moved methodically through his cleaning ritual, a dance he’d perfected over the last year. At seventeen, he’d grown taller still, his shoulders broadening from hauling crates and scrubbing down stalls. His broken nose gave his face character—at least that’s what Mrs. Chen told him on the rare occasions she offered personal observations.

“You missed a spot,” Miguel Ramirez called, pointing to a splatter of tomato pulp on the corner of his stall.

Matthew flicked his wet rag at it without missing a beat. “I was getting to it.”

“Sure you were,” Miguel laughed. “Here, don’t forget these.” He handed over a paper bag bulging with tomatoes, bruised but perfectly usable. “For the soup today, no?”

“Yeah, Mrs. Geigle’s letting me make the minestrone soup,” Matthew said, unable to keep his excitement disguised. After six months of chopping, peeling, and watching—always watching—the head cook at St. Vincent’s soup kitchen was finally giving him a shot at one of the main entrees.

“Ah! The big promotion!” Miguel clapped him on the shoulder. “You must use some zucchini and yellow squash, and swiss chard too.” He waved at Alejandro, who handed over a half case of the dark green heads.

“Fresh picked this day,” Alejandro said solemnly, as if bestowing a sacred gift.

Matthew nodded, tucking the oregano into his already bulging backpack. “Thanks. I will.”

He finished his cleaning circuit, collecting stained cardboard for recycling and hosing down the concrete where necessary. At each stall, vendors pressed ingredients into his hands—the ritual that had begun ten months ago when he started volunteering at the shelter was now an established tradition. Mrs. Saanvi offered a small glass jar of her custom Italian spice blend. Jack handed over a loaf of day-old sourdough with a wink.

“For your croutons,” he said. “Way better than that grocery store bread they use.”

Old Man Pietro, as always, insisted Matthew take a few edible flowers. “For the presentation,” he insisted. “We eat first with the eyes, then the nose, then the mouth.”

By the time Matthew finished his rounds, his backpack and an additional canvas tote were filled with the market’s generosity—their contribution to St. Vincent’s evening meal service, channeled through the quiet teenager they’d all collectively adopted.

At 4:30, Mr. Savage’s battered pickup truck rattled into the loading zone. The retired history teacher volunteered at St. Vincent’s three days a week and had been giving Matthew rides since his first day there.

“Ready to make culinary history?” Mr. Savage called through the open window, his gray hair sticking out in all directions as usual.

Matthew’s mouth quirked in what passed for a smile these days. “It’s just soup.”

“Ah, but it’s your soup,” Mr. Savage corrected, helping him load the market bounty into the truck bed. “Your show tonight, kid.”

As usual, Mr. Savage filled the fifteen-minute drive to St. Vincent’s with running commentary on the day’s news, local gossip and historical parallels that only seemed to make sense to him. Matthew listened with half an ear, mentally reviewing his cooking strategy. The recipe was his papa’s—right out of his tattered recipe book.

“Nervous?” Mr. Savage asked as they pulled into St. Vincent’s parking lot.

Matthew shook his head, though his stomach tightened at the prospect of taking over one of the kitchen’s main burner. “I’ve made it before.” Just never for sixty people. Never with an audience.

Mrs. Geigle was waiting at the kitchen’s back entrance, her imposing frame blocking the doorway, arms crossed over her floral apron. Her stern expression—the one that had intimidated Matthew when he first arrived at St. Vincent’s—he now read it as welcoming.

“You’re late,” she announced, though they were on time.

“Traffic,” Mr. Savage replied cheerfully, immune to her gruffness after twenty years of friendship.

Mrs. Geigle snorted and turned her attention to Matthew. “Got everything you need?”

He nodded, hoisting the bags of produce.

“Good. Everyone’s prepped and waiting for the maestro.” She stepped aside to let them enter, her mouth twitching with a tiny smile.

The kitchen was a hub of activity, volunteers chopping, stirring, and arranging trays for the evening’s service. The setup wasn’t professional—donated, mismatched equipment showed signs of heavy use—but it was functional and, most importantly, it was a proper kitchen where Matthew could learn and cook.

“The soup station is all yours,” Mrs. Geigle said, leading him to the large stock pot already positioned on the industrial stove. “I’ve got water heating and the mirepoix ready.” She gestured to a hotel pan of diced carrots, celery, and onions. “The rest is up to you.”

Matthew set his bags down on the prep table and began unpacking, arranging ingredients in order of use. The kitchen noise faded as he slipped into the familiar rhythm of prep work, his knife moving with the precision Mrs. Chen and later Mrs. Geigle had drilled into him over countless sessions.