Angel of Mercy by Lurlene McDaniel

phones, remember? The cabs wait in this one area and so you come to the Delta and find the cab that’s headed out to where you want to go. When people want to come back into the city, they wait at special cab stops. The cab comes along eventually and picks them up. No buses here. Cabs and walking are the way people travel.”
    “They could ride their cows,” Heather muttered under her breath.
    The Delta was a half-block-wide dirt parking arena filled with minivans, the cabs of the city. Ugandans milled around, some hawking their services, others waiting patiently for their vans to fill so that they could be on their way. “No van moves until it’s packed,” Ian explained. “And each van holds fourteen to sixteen people.”
    Heather wondered how Amber would manage under such conditions, then decided she probably wouldn’t. She hung close to Ian as he wove through the parked vans, asking a question or two in Swahili before moving on. Eventually he found the cab he was looking for, paid the driver, and ushered Heather inside. The space was cramped, but at least she had a window seat. Again she asked, “Where are we going?”
    “To the Nalongo Orphanage. I want you to meet Mother Harriet.”
    The ride to the western outskirts of the city was bumpy and accompanied by clouds of dust. By the time they reached their destination, they were the only two left in the van. Ian asked the driver to wait, and the man parked under a nearby tree and turned off his engine. Immediately quiet descended.
    “There it is,” Ian said. They walked toward a midsized brick building with a tin roof sitting in a large field, shut off by a metal fence. He opened the gate.
    “Can we do this?” she asked, half expecting guards to jump out.
    “The gate means little. It’s only a way to mark the property,” Ian told her. As they walked inside the fence, he added, “I met Mother Harriet when I was last here. She takes in street orphans, kids whose families have disappeared or been killed. I send her money to help out. Every little bit helps here.”
    They entered the building, and Heather stopped cold. The place was absolutely empty. She saw a dirt-smeared concrete floor and dirty, unpainted, peeling walls. Curtainless windows let in light, and a single bare bulb hung from a long cord in the center of the ceiling. She saw not one piece of furniture. “Have they moved?” she asked.
    “No. This is the home of twenty-five children. This is their main activity room.”
    “B-But where do they live? Where do they sleep?”
    “Their sleeping quarters are in the back. I’ll show you, but first let’s find Mother Harriet.”
    They found her in a small room off to one side, sitting behind a decrepit wooden desk piled with papers. She sprang up as they entered, a wide smile of recognition lighting her dark face. She was a tall woman, thin as a rail, and she wore a faded skirt and plaid top. Her hair was wrapped in a scarf.
    “Mr. McCollum!” she cried.
“Habari.”
She greeted him in Swahili. “How good to see my fine Scottish benefactor. Why did you not tell me you were coming? I would have kept the children here, instead of sending them off to school.”
    “Mzuri,”
he answered, then said, “I did not know myself if there would be time to come by, so please excuse us dropping in unannounced.” He introduced Heather.
    “I will make us tea,” Mother Harriet said. “Look around, then hurry back. Oh, and please see the fine dining table I was able to buy with some of the money you sent.”
    She hurried off into another room, and Ian took Heather by the elbow. “This way,” he told her.
    On the other side of the empty main room, they walked into a smaller room. There an old table stood, its top scratched and marred. It was quite long and fairly wide. “Where are the chairs?” Heather asked.
    “I’m guessing that she couldn’t afford chairs too.”
    “You mean the kids stand to eat?”
    “Chairs are a luxury. It’s better to buy