As of Wednesday morning, this is literally all Alex had to his name, other than the clothes on his back.
As of yesterday evening, all his wordly possessions expanded to this very small pile of clothes. Mark hooked him up with a 70% off discount, so he used the money that's been donated thus far to go and buy a couple of changes of clothes.
The Red Cross is going to buy us groceries, which is a relief, because apart from the generous support my parents give me, my income is only about $200 per month. (Sad, but true fact. McClung's is a part-time job in itself, and an unpaid one at that.) It's hardly enough to feed both of us. (Alex does work full-time, but obviously saving money is his top priority right now.)
We've been lying in bed at night playing the "what is now a pile of ash" game. I'll be drifting off to sleep and then say to Alex, "What about the tent you bought this summer?" "Burnt." "Your flute?" "Gone." (This last one made him almost start crying again.) "The dinosaur drawing I sent to you last year?" "That was my favourite bookmark." It's a stupid game, really, but I can't help it. He's sleeping soundly, I'm having nightmares. Fire terrifies me.
Thanks to everyone who has donated so far, especially the random people who have never met Alex, or me for that matter. It means the world to both of us. On the day of the fire, Alex was muttering profanity at all the voyeurs watching flames engulf his building. "I hate people," he told me. People were standing around us pointing and smiling. People were complaining about the disruption in transit. It could have been worse. (And I know, I know. I can't deny it. I would have watched, too, without a second thought to it.)
And then yesterday. . .offers of help have come flooding in. It's cliched, but things like this really do restore your faith in humanity and in the goodness of people. And tonight. . .tonight we'll drink a little bit and be grateful that we're alive.