The Line of the Sol Empress

Chapter 29.2

[Hope]

"Really, I can do this on my own. You may let go." Hope ambled down a sunlit corridor toward the food hall with a cane in one hand for stability. Stephen had an arm partially around her, grasping the mesh belt around her waist, a safety precaution that Lissa insisted upon. Not that Hope minded. His closeness became a pleasant intoxication, but there were much more important stakes. Regaining a degree of independent mobility was but the first step.

"Well, as long as you don't run away," he said with a grin, raising his hand and releasing her. "And don't fall either, or I will never hear the last of it from Lissa."

"Your concern is noted." Hope immediately regretted the unintended bite of the words. "I mean, we wouldn't want to disappoint her."

As Hope continued, hiking a hip with each step of her false leg, a dull throbbing soreness rose in the stump. But she reached into a reservoir of resolve and firmed her jaw, continuing on. Gabriel, Celeste, Eshe, Dad... I don't know what happened to them. They might need me.

Despite all that weighed on her mind, Hope allowed herself a feeling of accomplishment for having made it all the way through the long corridor. With a half-smile, she turned her head toward the watchful Stephen. At that moment, a young boy burst through the door, nearly colliding with her. By reflex, Hope shifted away, but stumbled back, losing balance while flinging out an arm. Stephen caught her from behind, wrapping his arms around her waist. Her heart fluttered, but not from the near fall.

"Gotcha!" he said, hazel eyes taking in hers. "That was close. We almost had to call Lissa."

"Yes," Hope replied with an airy voice. "That was... close."

The food hall bustled with activity. Truly a hall, rows of wooden tables and benches filled the center, while along the walls, workers in white aprons scooped food into gray plas-steel trays for the waiting diners. The tables and serving lines were segregated into sections with signs mounted on small stands: the smallest area for clinic patients and staff, the next for the children center, and the largest for the general public. A worker moved from one large window to another, lowering shades to block glaring sunbeams that had become uncomfortably bright.

Stephen helped Hope down sit down at a table in the clinic section. "I'll get us some food."

Hope took a moment to survey the murmuring crowd, including people from all ages. Most carried the look of poverty, whether tattered clothing, worn shoes, unwashed appearance, but most heartbreaking were the somber downward-cast expressions. Nonetheless, the servers put on pleasant faces and made it a point to greet each person. An older man in a white coat holding a tablet viewer stood on a small platform near the entrance, pointing and motioning while people came in as if directing a symphony. They do work together like a practiced orchestra.

Hunger was evident here, and not just for sustenance, but also for significance. Meager as they were, the shelter provided measures of both. A resolve came to Hope. Places like this should never suffer for resources.

A row of children, each holding a tray, stood in an orderly line under the watchful eyes of caregivers, waiting their turn in a separate serving line. Others in their group crowded a designated table, giggling and carrying on, blissfully oblivious to the surrounding poverty. Another caregiver narrowed her eyes while warning the children not to waste their food.

One child caught Hope's gaze. A young boy, perhaps five or six Earth-standard years old, sat alone at the end of the table, poking at his food. He had the olive-colored skin and bushy dark hair like most of the other children, but one thing set him apart from the others and made him particularly sympathetic to Hope — he wore a prosthetic leg. As she continued to study him, he looked up and caught her eye. The depth of despair in his wide brown eyes twined around her heart and squeezed, becoming so uncomfortable that she looked away.