The ‘super warehouse’ is huge, 100,000 square feet of just about everything possible in bulk boxes, bulk bags, and bulk crates. There’s enough food here to feed all of Roseboro, I think . . . but it doesn’t matter.

Of course it doesn’t matter. You’re just pissing onto a forest fire, thinking it’ll make a difference. Like you could make a difference.

Instead, I focus on what I’m here for. The big cart in front of me is already heavy as I load a second fifty-pound bag of rice onto it. Thankfully, this place doesn’t do normal shopping carts but industrial-strength carriers that can easily hold hundreds of pounds.

Up next are vegetables. I get a variety, from corn to green beans to carrots. Sadly, there aren’t tons of options. I’d love to buy fresh from the farmers, but that would mean leaving a trail, and I can’t have that.

I tug my ball cap lower as I turn the corner, and it’s sauces. Lots of pasta sauce, then on to pasta itself, spaghetti being the main one, of course, along with a case of that dried cheese that’s total shit but kids love.

Sausages, chicken breasts, oatmeal, milk . . . all of that’s going to get packed into thermal cases, and by the time I’m done, I’m straining to push the cart. It takes the cashier nearly fifteen minutes to ring everything up. Thankfully, one of the stock boys helps me load up the back of the truck, and he pats the tailgate appreciatively.

“Man, whatever you’re planning, I wanna be there. You’ve got enough here to feed a crowd. Tell me you’re buying beer next?”

“Not for this party,” I reply, tipping him a ten and a handshake. “Thanks for the help.”

The drive takes longer than usual, mainly because I’m going south all the way over the state line, off the main roads and ten minutes into what looks like woods. When I heard about this place, I couldn’t do anything at the time, but as I try to coast silently around the back, I start to tear up.

The Cabin looks almost normal on the outside. A large traditional-style house, a little rundown but cared for in a piecemeal sort of way that tells the tale of money coming in in fits and starts. Its eight bedrooms house sixteen kids, all of them rescued from abusive homes.

There are specialized programs here for the kids, therapy and job training, a chance for them to get their lives together. A chance for them to have a fresh start away from the roughness of their early days.

When I approached this place as Tom Nicholson, I’d heard what some of these kids went through. I hadn’t been able to sleep a wink that night, the pain from my own past brought to the surface by the shared shittiness of our childhoods. I’d had to put myself through hell in the gym to purge myself of the emotions, and they still nearly crippled me for two days. But I’d gotten over it and set out to help.

Because they’re struggling.

While the building itself might have been donated by an Oregonian who had the property and the foresight to see that getting these kids out of the environment they’d been in would help them more than a large urban ‘rehabilitation factory’, they don’t get as much as they need. Politicians see the budget and the number of kids helped, and the bean counters take over.

Which is why I’m out here at nearly eleven at night, doing my best to unload the truckload of supplies onto the covered back porch without making any noise.

Actually, the fact that I’m having any success tells me that the next trip out here needs to include a security camera and some floodlights. Harder for me to sneak in like Santa, but definitely safer for these kids who deserve to feel safe for the first time in their lives.

I know it’s stupid, keeping my charity work secret. If the PR team at the company knew about this, they’d be going gaga over it and trying to get my name in every paper up and down the West Coast. They’d probably preemptively clear a space on the wall of the bottom floor somewhere for all the awards they’d expect I’d get.

But that’s exactly why I haven’t told anyone. It’s not for the recognition. I almost don’t want to be recognized, actually. It’s why I’ve taken the steps I have, the shell company, the cashier’s checks on that account, the disguises, all of it.

Though I’ve thought about telling Mia. Maybe she’d understand, but I’m not sure yet. Not because I’m not sure of her but because I’m not sure about me.

My whole life, when my father was smacking me around, not giving a shit about me . . . no one really cared. They took me at face value as a charming, good-looking guy, someone who easily got good grades without the teachers’ special attention, and who could play ball and win for the team. There were definitely signs something was going on, but no one cared enough to find out. They took the easy way out and I paid the price.

And I don’t want the kids thinking I’m doing this at their expense, riding the coattails of their pain for accolades and awards. It’s not about that, and if anyone knew it was me, that’s what it’d morph into. I won’t use them that way. So here I am, sneaking around in the dark.

Stacking the boxes with the two basketballs and the football on top, I reach into my pocket and pull out the white envelope, tucking it under a five-pound can of tomato sauce.

Getting back in my truck, the door closing sounds loud and shocking in the quiet of the night. I wince and put the truck in neutral so it rolls a bit, looking behind me.

I see a slice of light as a door opens, a wide man and a smaller silhouette at his side dark against the bright backdrop. Through the open window, I hear his words carry on the night air.

“Good Lord, look at all this.”

Already caught, I crank the engine and gun it for the main road. But even over the engine, the man’s yell reaches me. “Thank you! Thank you so much!” His sob touches me, bringing a sharp burn to my eyes.

It’s still not enough. Just a drop in a bucket. You’ll never be enough.