I turn off the burner, and Sophie brings over a stack of plastic containers. "We'll fill these about three-quarters full. Each family gets two containers—one for tonight, one to freeze for later."
We work in silence, ladling sauce into containers. My hands are shaking slightly, though I'm not sure if it's from exhaustion or frustration or something else entirely.
Sophie's hands are steady. Of course they are.
"Why do you do this?" I ask suddenly. "And don't just say 'because it matters.' I want the real answer."
She doesn't look at me, just keeps filling containers. "That *is* the real answer."
"But why? What do you get out of it?"
"Does it matter?"
"Yeah," I say, and I'm surprised to realize I mean it. "It does."
Sophie is quiet for a long moment, and I think she's not going to an
