At eight-thirty that evening, Mack arrived for his shift, carrying a warm casserole in a ceramic dish which he placed on the desk before me. I took in his attire. He wore the black beanie on his head, and one of my older pair of blue jeans and a long-sleeved sweater underneath his old jacket. He was clean-shaven and appeared rested, for a change.
“What’s all this?” I asked, indicating the food.
He blushed and stammered, “I…I wanted to do something to say thank you, so I made you a meal. I thought you might be hungry.”
I was touched, and I could feel my heart melting even more toward him, in spite of myself. I needed to be careful. “Thanks, man. This smells great. Since when do you cook?” The only thing he could do when were kids was microwave popcorn.
“I learned over the years, kept it
