Grim Reaper 01 - Embrace the Grim Reaper

turned back to the building and tried to open the door, but the handle remained stiff under her fingers. Locked.
    Shading her eyes with her hands, she leaned closer to the glass door and searched for any sign of people. She saw only one. A young man, his skin pale under the fluorescent lights, straightening chairs and picking up the occasional piece of trash.
    Casey tapped on the glass, and he looked up. Seeing her, he left the chairs and came to the door, opening it. “Sorry. Supper’s not for…” He looked at his watch. “Another forty-five minutes. Five-o’clock.”
    “I’m not here to eat. I was wondering if I might help serve.”
    He took in her clothes and backpack, ending at her face. She couldn’t have deteriorated that much since she’d washed at the truck stop. Could she?
    “Well, come on in. We can always use another pair of hands.” He held the door open wider, and she scooted past him, noting the fresh fragrance of laundry and something heavier. Cologne. But not a familiar kind. Once inside, the smell of the food was almost overwhelming, and the man’s scent was erased.
    “What’s your name?” he asked.
    “Um. Casey Smith.”
    He nodded, his hazel eyes dancing. “All right, Ms. Smith. Nice to meet you. I’m Eric. Eric Jones.” He smiled, exposing perfectly straight and white teeth.
    Casey couldn’t help but answer with a smile of her own. A small one.
    “Actually,” Eric said, “my last name’s VanDiepenbos, but don’t tell anyone. It’s too hard for them to remember. You wouldn’t believe the things I’ve been called.”
    Casey held up two fingers. “I promise.”
    “Why don’t you help me straighten up these chairs, first. Here, I’ll take your backpack into the staff room.”
    She hesitated.
    “It’ll be safe. Really. We keep it locked all the time. There’s even lockers if you want to use one.”
    With a mixture of relief and anxiety she unloaded her burden and handed it over to Eric. To this young man, at least a decade younger than she ever remembered being.
    While he was gone she studied the room. The tables were laid with brightly colored tablecloths. Blue and pink and yellow. Like a birthday party. Vases of plastic flowers decorated every section. Pretty flowers, clean and cheerful. This was unlike any homeless shelter Casey had ever seen.
    Eric returned, and together they picked up trash and straightened chairs.
    “It’s supper only,” Eric told her. “We’d like to do more, but it’s hard to find enough food for the meals we do, let alone a supply of volunteers. The Missionary church down the street offers lunches on Wednesdays, but other than that people need to fend for themselves.”
    Casey could feel his eyes on her face, as if gauging her reaction.
    “Really,” she said. “I’m not here to eat.”
    She could tell he didn’t believe her, but there was nothing she could do about that. “I’m curious…”
    “About what?”
    “You’ve got a small town here. I didn’t see… Do you have that many homeless people? Folks who need meals?”
    He squatted to pull a wadded napkin from under a table. “Not homeless , necessarily. But we’ve added a lot of place settings during the past year. And it’s only going to get worse with the plant leaving.”
    “What plant?”
    He stood up. “You’re not from around here?”
    She shook her head.
    “I should’ve figured that. Sorry.”
    “What plant?” she said again.
    “The one on the edge of town. HomeMaker. It’s closing. Moving to Mexico, actually. About a quarter of the employees were laid off last Christmas—nice time for that, huh?—and it’s shutting down completely within three months. This town, it’s just going to— Anyway, we’ve got lots more people coming for supper than we had even six months ago. But not any more supplies. People can’t afford to feed their families, let alone have anything left over to give away.”
    “What happened? With the plant?”
    He held out a trash bag and she dumped her handful of garbage into it. “The usual. You know. The union wants more money, better wages for the workers. The owners say, ‘screw you,’ and move to Mexico to get the tax breaks and cheap labor. Nothing new.” He tied the top of the trash bag and heaved it over his shoulder. “Come on, I’ll put you to work with the food.”
    Casey followed him through a narrow door into a steaming hot kitchen. A skinny elderly woman stood at a stove in an apron, her hair scraped back