Bram had practiced the first sentence on the tram and abandoned it by the time he reached the charity office.
Gratitude sounded too much like a speech when he put it in formal words. His mother and sister had obtained housing through people who had assessed their needs independently of him, endured the temporary rooms, and found a more stable arrangement after checking what they could afford and reach. Bram had helped with what they permitted. He had not rescued them into a debt.
Now the charity’s housing worker had agreed to meet him at the support office. He did not have permission to turn up at the residence unannounced.
He put the two wrapped lengths of latch strip on the desk and began anyway.
“I wanted to say that what you’ve done for my family—”
The housing worker slid a maintenance sheet across the desk.
“The corridor cupboard won’t latch. The lower handrail bracket needs inspection. There are two doors with requests, but only one resident has agreed to your working on hers. Is that something you’re able to help with?”
Bram looked at the list.
