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I stood there, torn between fear of what would happen if someone saw me, and the instinct not to let this man freeze to death outside a kitchen full of leftover soup.
“Come on,” I said, pulling him up carefully. “This way. Quietly.”
He could barely walk. I guided him through the back, moving fast, heart pounding. I could already hear my boss’s voice in my head: You don’t bring street rats in here!
I led him to the supply closet near the break room. It was cramped, stacked with paper towels and napkins, but at least it was warm. I grabbed a clean towel, wrapped it around his shoulders, then rushed to the kitchen for a bowl of leftover soup and a few rolls of bread.
When I handed it to him, his hands trembled so badly he almost dropped it.
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