Granted, the view was not spectacular by anyone’s standards. She overlooked the other rowhouses and alley behind her building. But the sky stretched above, the setting sun painted muted colors over the blue palette, and the breeze from the harbor in the distance brought a freshness to the air. Sipping wine, she continued with more of her research.
Her phone rang and she grinned, seeing the e-magazine editor. “Chuck, did you get my email?”
“Yes, that’s why I’m calling. Gotta tell you, Kimberly, I’m excited about your Faces of Hope City concept.”
“Great! I interviewed a woman today who’s perfect! She’s worked at Kilton since the beginning and was a hoot to talk to.”
“Can’t wait to read what you’ve got. But, listen, you also mentioned more than just employees. I agree you should spread out into all walks of life. Even those that might be a little difficult to connect with.”
“I’m going to the Cardboard Cottages tomorrow with a church group… I might find some to interview there.”
“Absolutely. Listen, I’m not saying write an exposé, because that’s not your expertise anyway. You don’t have to be an investigative journalist to do some digging. Give me the faces of those affected by the illegal use of drugs. I know Kilton only wants good news, but readers would love to hear the human-interest angle of all kinds of people. At least think about it, okay?”
He sent a link to a news article, and she clicked on the link after ending the call. Quickly scanning the information, she recognized the article as one she had read earlier. It described the opioid crisis, including the illegal use of adding fentanyl to drugs such as heroin to make them more potent and more addictive.
Heading downstairs, she moved into the living room and settled on the sofa with her laptop. The article also delved into how stolen legal fentanyl was used to further addiction, creating a multi-million-dollar illicit industry. She wondered if that was what was happening to the stolen Kilton drugs. Staring at the computer screen, she continued clicking through articles. Homelessness was mentioned when many who spent all their money on their addiction often lost everything, including their homes.
Leaning back in her chair with her foot propped beside her and her chin resting on her knee, she sighed heavily. She had no idea what she would do, but a slither of curiosity snaked through her as her mind raced with possibilities.
10
Kimberly stared out the windshield of her small car, uncertainty slamming into her. She had helped Father James and others from the church pack up blankets and food, but now her curiosity in seeing the actual faces called to her. Need mixed with suspicion. Gratitude that made her feel humble.
The church group had taken a different exit ramp and delivered items on the other side of the highway bridge, staying at a distance, having some of the male residents come forward to take the offerings. Disappointed that they had not gotten closer, one of the helpers mentioned having seen women and children on the other side the previous week.
After saying goodbye to Father James, she drove back to the highway and made her way to a different exit ramp near the harbor. She curved around until she could view the Cardboard Cottages from the other side. Near the outer perimeter were a few tents, and she could see children playing ball on the hard-packed dirt. No parks. No grass. No trees. Her heart squeezed at the idea of their life spent in what looked like a third world camp just on the fringes of a modern metropolis. A large metal barrel was nearby, flames barely visible from the top. The early spring morning had a chill to the air, and a few women stood around the barrel, their fingers extended for warmth as they talked and kept an eye on the children.
As her gaze roved further under the bridges, there were very few lights to illuminate the area. But what she could see appeared to be a conglomeration of metal sheets, plywood, and cardboard making up the housing.
She sat for several minutes, trying to both determine the best course of action and regain her nerves which had fled at the first sight of the area. She had dressed for comfort and warmth but wondered about her red sweatshirt hoodie. Is it better for safety to stand out in a bright color, or am I just bringing undue attention to myself?