Chapter 4: Dinner with the Walkers

Mr. White didn’t have any classes that day and was reading the local paper when Justin came in, fuming:

"Hall, if I hadn’t listened to you, none of this would’ve happened!"

He dropped his bag, pacing like a caged animal. His frustration was so thick you could almost see it. I braced for a fight.

"So you give them gifts today—what about tomorrow? Or the day after? When you run out, are you going to give them yourself? Justin, they’re used to being handed things. What you brought won’t satisfy them."

I tried to keep my voice calm, but the tension was climbing. I wanted him to get that good intentions weren’t always enough.

We started arguing, and Mr. White hustled over to break it up, but the more he tried, the worse it got. Right then, Katie came back. When Savannah opened the door, Katie could sense the tension, shrank back a little, but still gathered herself:

"Miss, my mom wants to invite you to dinner."

Her voice was small, almost pleading. I saw the hope in her eyes, the way she twisted her hands. I glanced at Savannah, who gave me a little nod.

These days, lots of families with kids had invited us, but we’d always declined.

There was this running joke among volunteers—accept a dinner invite, and you’ll end up with a new family or at least a fridge full of leftovers. Still, something in Katie’s voice made it hard to say no.

Mr. White waved her off, but Katie almost dropped to her knees:

"Please, come to our house for dinner."

Her desperation caught us off guard. I shot Savannah a look—there was more to this than just a meal.

On the way to Katie’s, Mr. White tried every trick to get her talking, but she just kept quiet.

She walked a few steps ahead, head down, lips pressed tight. Mr. White tried everything—questions about her family, her favorite foods—but she only gave one-word answers, never meeting his eyes.

Finally, at her house, Katie darted to my side and whispered:

"I have a brother and a sister-in-law."

Her words came out in a rush, like she was afraid someone might overhear. I squeezed her hand, hoping it helped.

The woman from the church sign was her mom. She was surprised to see us, wiped her hands, and came out to greet us:

"Wow, you really came. Katie must be persuasive."

She laughed nervously, glancing over her shoulder as if expecting someone else. There was a tension in the air, like something unspoken was hanging there.

Her tone was odd, breathless with surprise and a hint of fear.

She ushered us inside, moving quick and jittery. I heard pots clattering in the kitchen, the smell of stew thick in the air. The house was small but spotless, every corner scrubbed clean.

Inside, Katie’s grandmother called out from the kitchen. The old lady was thin, her hair pure white.

Her voice was sharp, commanding, slicing through the noise. I caught a glimpse of her hunched over the stove, moving faster than you’d expect for someone her age.

"Teachers are here! Katie, come help me with the stove!"

Katie ran over. The old lady smacked her on the back:

"Didn’t I tell you to come back early to help? Useless girl, can’t remember a thing!"

The words stung, but Katie just nodded, shoulders drooping. I wanted to say something, to defend her, but I knew I didn’t have that right—not yet. In these hills, family came first.

Justin wanted to help, but Mr. White stopped him. When Savannah and I looked back, Mr. White shook his head at us.

He mouthed, "Let them handle it," and I realized this was their dance, not ours. The kitchen was their world, and we were just passing through.

At dinner, we learned Katie did have a brother, about twenty, tall, always smiling, drooling as he grinned, his face streaked with snot.

He sat at the end of the table, eyes unfocused, rocking back and forth. His laughter was loud, echoing off the walls, but there was a sadness in it—a sense of something lost.

Seeing us look at him, Katie’s mom said awkwardly:

"This is Katie’s brother, Bobby. He’s been slow since he was little. Not all there."

She tried to smile, hands twisting in her lap. I saw the pain in her eyes, the way she wouldn’t look at Bobby as she spoke.

I glanced at Bobby. He was more than just slow.

There was a wildness in his movements, a volatility that made me uneasy. The family tiptoed around him, careful not to set him off.

When Katie accidentally bumped him while serving food, he shoved her aside, spilling hot soup onto her hand, turning it red in an instant.

The room froze. Katie bit her lip, tears welling up, but she didn’t cry out. I jumped up, grabbing her arm and pulling her toward the sink.

I rushed Katie to rinse her hand, but her mom came in carrying a dish and just glanced at her:

"Katie, honestly, what can you do right?"

Her voice was sharp, dismissive. I felt a jolt of anger, wanting to defend Katie, but the look in her mother’s eyes stopped me cold.

Grandma chimed in:

"Exactly, all that schooling for nothing. If you ask me, she should just get married when she’s old enough."

Her words were flat, like Katie’s future was already decided. The room went even quieter.

That set Bobby off. He started clapping and shouting:

"Wife! Wife!"

His laughter was loud and jarring. Grandma shot Katie a warning look, then pulled Bobby down into his chair, whispering something in his ear.

The tension was thick. I led Katie to the kitchen, her hand trembling in mine.

I took Katie to the kitchen sink, water running loud. As I washed her hand, I asked:

"Your brother’s married? To who? Why didn’t she eat with us?"

I kept my voice low, trying not to draw attention. Katie flinched, her eyes darting to the closed door at the end of the hall.

Katie shrank back, trying to pull away. Just then, a noise came from the locked room nearby—so soft you’d miss it if you weren’t listening.

The sound was like someone shifting in their sleep. I glanced at the door, a chill running down my spine.

I turned the tap up.

The water roared, drowning out everything else. Katie’s shoulders shook, silent tears streaming down her cheeks.

Looking at Katie, I saw her eyes were brimming with tears.

I squeezed her hand, wishing I could do more. The weight of her pain was heavy and real.

Inside, Grandma was calling us back. I brought Katie in:

"Mrs. Walker, that soup was too hot. Look, Katie’s in tears. Maybe you can put some ointment on her later."

I tried to sound casual, but my voice shook. Mrs. Walker just nodded, barely glancing at Katie. I realized then how invisible she must feel in her own home.