If you're coming in late, the story begins here.
Jason Savage stood on one side of the living room and wondered what he'd done to deserve this sort of intrusion. It wasn't as if he'd been friendly to the kid, after all. He'd answered his questions, but nothing else. So the kid was either oblivious to his distaste, or self-possessed enough to ignore it...
Or desperate enough. He turned that thought over, and nodded to himself. They look like refugees. The ragged clothes, the way they held tight to their few possessions... It wasn't something he would have expected to find in northwestern Arkansas, but now that he'd put a name to the impression he couldn't set it aside.
All right. They had shelter now, and hopefully they were getting warm again. If they'd been that badly off, they were probably hungry too. Well, it's not as if I had anything better to do, he thought, and walked into the kitchen. It's not as if I was doing anything at all.
He opened the refrigerator and started sorting out foods. It bothered him that he couldn't feel any real desire to help; what he was doing now was less than a decision, and only a little bit more than a reflex. He couldn't feel any connection to it. He wondered if the refugees would see this as some sort of invitation, but he couldn't bring himself to care. If they became a problem, he'd ask them to leave. In the meantime, well... as long as they didn't bother him, he didn't care what they did.