Out of the Cold by Norah McClintock

the greatest picture in the world, but it’s the only one I could find of him. You can have it if you want.”
    â€œOkay, that’s that,” Morgan said cheerfully once we were out on the street again. “Let’s go shopping.”
    â€œNot yet.”
    â€œAww, come on, Robyn. There are only nine more shopping days left.”
    â€œYou said you’d help me, Morgan.”
    â€œExcuse me, but what was I just doing?”
    I gave her a look.
    â€œOkay, okay,” she grumbled. “What do you want me to do?”

CHAPTER SEVEN
    â€œN
    ow
can we go home?” Morgan said a few hours later. “My feet are killing me. I’m cold. And I still have spit on the front of my coat. That stuff sticks like glue. What if that woman—”
    â€œAggie. Her name is Aggie.”
    â€œRight. What if
Aggie
has a communicable disease?”
    â€œWhy are you acting so squeamish today? You volunteer at the shelter.”
    Morgan’s cheeks, already red from the cold, got a little redder.
    â€œYou
do
volunteer there, don’t you, Morgan?”
    â€œI’d like to,” she said. “I know it’s important to Billy. But you know how unpredictable my schedule can be.”
    â€œSo exactly how many times
have
you been down here?” I said.
    â€œCome on, Robyn. If I came down here every single time Billy asked me to, I’d never have any time for myself.”
    â€œHow many times?”
    â€œI was here once at the beginning of November.”
    â€œFor how long?”
    â€œWhat difference does it make?”
    â€œFor how long, Morgan?”
    She shrugged and looked down at the sidewalk. “Couple of hours.”
    â€œA couple of
hours
?”
    â€œI had a hair appointment. I dropped by to pick up Billy when I was finished, and I helped him sort out some clothing donations.”
    â€œAnd since then?”
    â€œWell ...”
    That explained why Art Donovan hadn’t remembered her name. I should have known. Morgan was my best friend. She was madly in love with Billy, even though she and he were polar opposites. But she was
not
a people person, especially not a homeless-people person.
    â€œI thought volunteering to help live people would be better than volunteering to pick up dead birds,” she said. During the last migration season, Morgan had spent a day sorting through dead birds collected by the Downtown Avian Rescue Club. She had spent the following week complaining about the stench of death that she claimed clung to her hair. “It turns out I was wrong.”
    â€œSooner or later, Billy is going to expect you to actually show up,” I said.
    â€œMaybe by then he’ll be involved in something else. You know, something I can handle.”
    Uh-huh.
    â€œRobyn, can we
please
go somewhere warm?”
    I looked up and down the street. The only possibility I saw was a place called Sal’s Open Kitchen. It looked decidedly down-market. I glanced skeptically at Morgan.
    A gust of icy wind caught us both, and we shivered.
    â€œI can hardly feel my fingers,” she said. “And my face feels numb. I could be drooling and not even know it. If Sal’s is heated, that’s good enough for me.” She changed her mind as soon as she pushed open the door. “On second thought, maybe we should go someplace else.”
    â€œThe closest someplace else is at least five blocks that way,” I said, pointing.
    â€œBut that’s
into
the wind,” Morgan said. She took another look at Sal’s long, narrow interior. One side was taken up by a counter that ran the length of the place. Three of its stools were occupied. Half a dozen fourperson tables filled the other half of the room. A couple tables at the rear were occupied by men drinking beer.
    â€œMaybe if we sit up front,” Morgan murmured. She headed for the table closest to the window and gingerly inspected a scarred, vinyl-covered chair before dropping