Every Saturday, I Load Juice Boxes, Crackers, Crayons, Coloring Books, and a Bag of Tiny Treasures Into My Car, Drive Forty Minutes Across Foggy Back Roads to a State Prison, and Sit on a Cold Metal Bench With Children Who Miss Their Parents, Watching Them Cry, Lean on Me, Ask the Hardest Questions About Love, Justice, and Life While Somehow Feeling Safe for Just an Hour Because Somebody Has to Love Them Too Even When Nobody Else Does

I almost laughed through the ache in my chest. “I do.”

She nodded slowly, wary, then whispered, “Twenty minutes. If he can’t do it, I’ll come back out immediately.”

We counted cars together: blue ones first, then red trucks, then dogs in the lot. We drew shapes in the dirt, traced imaginary roads with sticks. He nibbled on crackers and leaned against my arm. He forgot, for a brief moment, that this world could hurt so deeply. When his mother returned, he didn’t run into her arms crying. He held up two sticky fingers. “I saw eleven blue cars,” he said proudly.

I realized, in that moment, that even a small hour of ordinary care could matter more than anything else in the world.

Part 2: Building a Sanctuary