All That Really Matters

at a church, Miles. You must have contact with tons of needy people. I’m simply asking for you to give me everything you have in the underprivileged youth category.”
“Everything I have in the underprivileged youth category,” he repeated slowly, unhelpfully. “You’d like me to just hand over a list to you.”
“That would be great, yes.” I held out my hand as if he had some sort of Santa-size scroll of needs tucked inside his jersey shorts ready for the taking.
“I’m afraid it doesn’t work like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because there are protocols for this kind of thing. It’s not like I have some sort of Santa-size scroll ready to hand over to you.” He laughed at the face I pulled. “Wait, that’s literally what you thought, isn’t it? Oh wow. Okay.”
“Shut up.” I rolled my eyes.
“Usually when there’s a need in our community, an organization or an individual will call the church and then Susan will take down their information. I follow up with a phone call first, and then schedule a visit to get more information—”
“I’ve aged twenty years in the time it’s taken you to talk about your protocol.”
He snapped his attention back to me. “Silas Whittaker.”
“Who?”
“I met with him a couple years ago during an outreach downtown. He’s a good guy, sharp and ethical. He manages a house for young adults who’ve aged out of the foster system and are now transitioning to independent living. They’re looking for some volunteers for their summer program to help the residents learn life skills like budgeting, cooking, cleaning, job interviewing skills. That kind of stuff. I guess he’s short on female mentors. But he runs a super tight ship—”
“A summer mentor?” I smiled, already imagining picnics and trips to the lake while talking about goals and dreams. “I can so do that. Consider it done.” I could see it now as a clickbait article: Makeup Matters with Molly becomes a mentor to young women transitioning from the foster system, saves them from a life of crime and sadness.
It couldn’t be more ideal if I’d planned it myself.
Again, Miles studied me, this time seeming to reconsider his offer. “On second thought, I’ll call you when I’m back in my office, see what else I can find. Maybe something a little less . . . involved.”
Hands on my hips, I glared back at him. “Less involved? Why? This sounds perfect for me. Val has most of my video posts edited and scheduled out through the middle of July, so I have a bit more time and flexibility right now. Plus, life skills are totally my thing.”
Miles seemed less than sure about this, but that was just Miles.
“Silas Whittaker.” I cemented the contact name in my brain. “Text me his contact info, and I’ll call him this afternoon, okay?”
“Molly, listen, the residents there . . . a lot of them have had hard lives—some harder than others. If you go out there for the summer, it needs to be because you feel called there specifically. Not for any other reason.”
“Of course, I know that.” I stared him down, daring him to come at me again with an accusation of trying to please our parents, parents I hadn’t even seen face-to-face in nearly two years. They were in Panama. Or maybe it was the Philippines. Since they took their church-planting ministry abroad, it had become increasingly difficult to keep track of their whereabouts.
Without hesitation, he hooked an arm around my back and pulled me in for a hug, squishing my cheek against his sweat-damp T-shirt. “I’m proud of you for taking this step, sis.”
I wiggled out of his hold, working to leave behind the twinge of guilt his words caused as I retreated several steps. “Thanks.” I smiled. “And don’t forget to text me that info, okay?”
“As if you’d ever let me forget.”
No truer words. With that, I pushed out the gymnasium doors and breathed in the fresh May air. I would do this. I would partner with a worthy cause like Ethan suggested, and I would become the best volunteer Miles and his church had ever commissioned into the real world . . . and perhaps, I might also inspire a following of 600,000-plus to go and do the same.

3
Molly
I glided into a parking space and searched for my notebook to double-check the address once more. Silas Whittaker’s receptionist had rattled it off so quickly I wasn’t entirely sure I’d written it down correctly. Then again, I wasn’t entirely sure about several things regarding The Bridge Youth Home.
After completing their fourteen-page Become A Mentor! application online, I no longer wondered why volunteers weren’t flocking to this establishment in droves. The process was ninety-five percent interrogation, five percent request for unpaid help. I hoped to address this catastrophic marketing mistake with Mr. Whittaker once I passed the initial volunteer interview set for eleven this morning.
I’d already warned Miles that if any staff members came at me with syringes or a urine sample collection cup, I’d be looking for a new community service venue STAT.
His only reply was #dramaqueen.
I slid my Coach sunglasses down the bridge of my nose and scanned the oversized locked mailbox at the edge of the road. The address stenciled along the side matched the one I’d written down: 589 Fir Crest Lane. Much like the majority of my expectations thus far, the building ahead of me was not at all what I’d been anticipating. The setting was as fairy-tale as you could get in this part of town, with its rolling hills and farm-like landscape. Nobody would guess that the industrial blue-collar districts of Spokane were only a few miles away. Yet it was the massive craftsman-style home parked in front of me that was beyond anything I could have imagined. It certainly was not the typical Band-Aid–beige government institution with barred windows and a cement slab for a yard. No, The Bridge Youth Home was a gorgeous display of crimson and buttercream brick laid between tapered columns, sweeping balconies, and exposed rafter tails, framed