he sound of playing children surrounded me. I was sitting on a bench in the middle of the play yard, a small child of about six with a dirty but happy face sitting on my lap.
Mrs. Addison, the headmistress, was sitting next to me keeping an eye on things.
Some of the kids were already wearing the new sweatshirts I'd brought despite the warm sun.
"Thank you again," Mrs. Addison said, her scent reminding me vaguely of bleach. It wasn't unpleasant, just unusual, and unusual scents were something I was happy to support.
"Are you having issues getting clothes for the children?" I asked.
Mrs. Addison sighed and nodded. "Sadly, yes."
"I have to admit," I said, "I'm a little surprised since the orphanage where I grew up had quite the donations department. I didn't realize mine was special. I
