Part 5 – The Walk to the Church Pantry
El Paso, Texas – March 14, 2016
The wind kicked up early that Monday.
It rattled the old screen door and dusted a thin layer of sand across Rowan Greaves’s porch. Somewhere in the distance, a train blew its horn — long and low, like a warning.
Rowan pulled on his jacket. The one with the burn mark on the sleeve.
Patch limped after him, head low, ears perked. He didn’t like Mondays either.
Rowan paused at the mailbox. Nothing but fliers. One read:
Need Help With Groceries?
Calvary Free Pantry – Monday & Thursday, 10 AM – 2 PM
No ID Required. Just Come Hungry.
4373 Iron Ridge Lane
He turned the card over, as if it might bite.
The last time he stepped into a church, Dusty was still alive.
The walk was just under two miles, but it felt longer.
His hip clicked with every third step. His right shoe had a crack in the sole. The air was dry and sharp, like sandpaper against his lungs.
Patch trotted beside him. Slower now. The limp worse when it was cold.
“Almost there, boy,” Rowan said, more to himself.
The church sat between a tire shop and an empty lot.
Not fancy. Stucco walls the color of weak coffee. A crooked cross over the front door. Three faded folding chairs on the porch, two of them empty.
The third held a woman in a purple sweater with more pins than fabric.
She looked up. “You here for the pantry?”
Rowan hesitated. “Don’t got papers.”
“Don’t need ’em.”
“I didn’t shower.”
She shrugged. “You think food cares?”
He cracked a smile. First one all day.
Inside, the air smelled like coffee, cornmeal, and canned peaches.
A long folding table ran down the center of a small rec room. On it: bags of rice, powdered milk, beans, dented cans, loaves of discounted bread. A few volunteers stood behind the table, wearing latex gloves and worn-out kindness.
An older man with shaky hands placed a can of stew into a plastic bag.
“Welcome, friend,” he said.
Rowan nodded.
Patch sat politely by the wall, tail sweeping the floor.
They gave Rowan:
- A sack of dried lentils
- A box of off-brand cereal
- One bag of dog food (small, but clean)
- Two frozen chicken thighs in a foam tray
- A bar of soap
He hadn’t asked for it. But someone must’ve seen something in his eyes — the kind of tired that doesn’t come from sleep.
Before he left, the woman in purple handed him a folded note.
“Just something the pastor’s been writing for folks. Don’t have to read it.”
Rowan tucked it in his coat without looking.
Outside, the sun beat down on the cracked pavement. Rowan and Patch started the long walk home, shadows stretched thin behind them.
Back at the trailer, he unpacked the food slowly. Hands careful, like it might disappear if he moved too fast.
He fed Patch first. Half the kibble mixed with warm water.
Patch wagged his tail, licked Rowan’s fingers.
“Good boy,” Rowan whispered.
Then he boiled the lentils, stirred in some salt, and ate them plain.
No butter. No meat. Just heat and something solid.
It was enough.
After dinner, he remembered the note.
He unfolded it at the kitchen table. The handwriting was old-school — careful loops and quiet strength.
“When God seems silent,
He may be waiting to speak through others.
A dog.
A stranger.
A bag of beans.Keep your door open. Even just a little.”
Rowan stared at the paper.
He didn’t believe in much anymore. Not since Valerie. Not since the baby. Not since Dusty.
But something in the way the words sat there — not loud, not demanding — made him keep the paper.
He slid it into the tin under the floor, next to Dusty’s collar.
The next morning, Rowan woke with a jolt.
Patch was barking at something outside.
He grabbed his coat, limped to the porch, and blinked into the sunlight.
A cardboard box sat at the foot of the steps.
No note. No knock. No tire tracks in the dirt.
Inside: another bag of dog food, two tins of tuna, and a roll of paper towels.
Patch sniffed the box, then wagged his tail once and looked up at Rowan.
Rowan knelt down and rubbed his ears.
“Dusty,” he whispered, without knowing why.
That day, he walked back to the church.
Not for food.
He just sat on the folding chair next to the woman in the purple sweater and nodded once.
“Don’t want to talk,” he said.
“You don’t have to,” she replied.
They sat for almost an hour. No words. Just sun and wind and the creak of an old cross on an old roof.
Patch laid down between them like he belonged there.
Which maybe he did.
Later that night, Rowan tried to fix the toaster again.
Not because he needed toast — he hadn’t bought bread in two weeks — but because fixing things felt like control.
He cleaned out the coil, replaced the spring with one he scavenged from a keychain.
It clicked, whirred… and worked.
He smiled.
“Still got it,” he muttered.
Patch wagged once.
As the sun set, Rowan took out the envelope from the VA.
Still no check.
Still no answer on the phone line.
Still the same gnawing knot in his gut about how to pay for insulin next week.
But somehow, the knot was smaller than it had been.
The rice was in the cupboard.
The dog had food.
And for the first time in a long while… he had company.
He sat on the porch as the sky went soft with dusk.
Patch rested his head on Rowan’s foot.
The desert was quiet — not empty, just quiet. A stillness that felt like listening.
Rowan looked up.
Somewhere far east of here, across oceans and borders and years, a boy named Hasan was probably sleeping.
And maybe dreaming of a dog with a dusty coat and a quiet soul.
Rowan whispered into the dusk:
“She stayed for you… and you stayed for me.”
Patch stirred gently.
And the wind answered.