The taxi driver, a weathered man with kind eyes, spoke broken English but understood her gestures well enough when she pointed to the address she'd written on a scrap of paper. The community kitchen sat tucked between a medical clinic and a small church, its corrugated metal roof gleaming under the harsh midday sun.

Prue paid the driver and stepped out onto the dusty street. The building looked modest from the outside, but the moment she pushed through the front door, the rich aroma of cooking ...