Early the next morning, I stood at the stove making a hearty beef stew with carrots and potatoes.

It was the only family recipe my mother had managed to teach me to cook without burning the bottom of the pot.

I ladled the thick stew into an old plastic container, snapped the lid on tight, and drove over to the house.

When I came around the gravel driveway by the alley, what I saw stopped me cold.

Lucas’s shelter sat totally empty in the frosty morning air.

The wool blankets had been folded neatly on top of the wooden pallets, and the metal soup cans were gone.