Autumn Flame (Seasons #2 )

Chapter 8: Food Bank Fiasco

It's early morning as my train click-clacks along the Manhattan Bridge. I'm heading into deep Brooklyn, like, deep, and I'm trying to remember, why the hell did I think it would be a good idea to participate in this? Past Rhys, you suck, you bushy-tailed eager beaver.

Past Rhys signed up for a bunch of clubs because he was a freshman and excited to do all the things, and now future Rhys is on a morning commute into deep Brooklyn to volunteer at a food bank.

I'm hungover like hell, I haven't had breakfast, and the Manhattan skyline wiggles and shakes in the window outside my train. I grip the rail hard. Nothing feels stable. The world is made of Jell-O.

I have no texts from Preston or Felicity, no replies from Sydney, and thankfully nothing from Olivia or Melanie.

Clement's checked in with a simple, Home or hospital?

Made it home. Thx brother, I write back.

He likes my message and that's the extend of human interaction I have this morning.

I open my texts to Sydney. All unanswered. My thumbs twitch to write her again, but I decide against it.

Don't be an idiot, she clearly doesn't want to talk to you.

I put my phone away, tuck my hands in my pockets and walk a few blocks until I spot a large sign with a vegetable basket.

The food bank is in a large warehouse. Pallets of boxes sit stacked up to the ceiling and industrial lights flood the space. It's a stark contrast from the gloom and doom outside that matches my mood a little better.

I should've brought sunglasses.

Rubbing my temples, I locate the sign for the student check-ins and get in queue.

My sleep was godawful. I dreamt I swam across a dark ocean to reach Sydney, only for her to turn around and become Melanie. A whirlpool would then take me and sweep me under the water. The two of them standing side by side would look on as I drown.

I tap my foot onto the solid, solid ground. What a nice, dry, solid floor this is.

"Good morning!" says a grumbling middle-aged lady sitting behind the table dressed in head-to-toe black. A pair of glasses hangs around her neck on a chain with red beads that clank happily. It's at complete odds with her entire dark cloud energy. "I'll be your coordinator today," she says in a monotone voice. "Thank you for volunteering at the Brooklyn Basket, where we feed all of New York with joy and pleasure."

I wince. I can really feel the joy emanating... not. "Hi," I mumble.

She walks me and a few other latecomers through what we'll be doing today, but I don't hear a single word.

Sydney is here. Sydney is here.

I spot her ahead with another group and crane my neck to see where they're going.

Of course, she'd sign up for this, too. She's a good person. I bet she's not even doing it for the bonus points for a class.

We get closer and closer until our coordinator takes a left turn.

Right, lady! Go right! I want to shout at her. You're taking us the wrong way.

"Right," our coordinator says, breathing heavily from the short walk. "You'll be on loading duty."

Lift boxes and don't talk much is fine by me. "Excuse me, ma'am?" I raise a hand. "Do we need to take those boxes over there? Where those students are packing?" I point at the hangar where Sydney is.