Every few months I tear them away from their killing games and push them into the car. It is a long drive through the tunnel and across the bridge to the south part of the city. Most times, I spend half the ride yelling at them to keep their hands to themselves. When we get there, we register and the young person who is leading spends extra time with us. We are not the normal volunteer for them: We are a dad and two young boys. They give the boys special jobs and put them out front to distribute the food that I put on the tables in big piles . The line of hungry people is long, though they do not look particularly hungry. They are mostly old and Asian, humped and shuffling, pushing wire grocery hoppers on wheels. Some demand more or eye a particularly large piece of fruit. They point and speak to the boys in Chinese with harsh syllables. The boys don't know what they are saying, but they smile and try to be kind. And then all at once the gesturing man or woman will break into a smile as the boys squint at them and try to be helpful in the sun.