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you,” Carol said with a maternal air. “January is one of our favorite volunteers. It’s such a blessing to see a young person who exhibits genuine care about the less fortunate!”
    Carol sighed rapturously at the end of this tribute to my girlfriend’s sterling character, and January made a surreptitious face at me that I understood implicitly. It said: “Carol is harmless, if seriously corny and also maybe just a little bit crazy.”
    Volunteering at the Huron Street Homeless Shelter hadn’t exactly been on January’s summer vacation bucket list; rather, it was yet another decision that had been made on her behalf, and enforced, by Jonathan Walker. Once a week at the shelter and once a week at the Red Cross, the noticeably selfless commitment of her time to Important Causes was guaranteed to be described in the most admiring of tones by journalists writing profiles of the aspiring U.S. senator’s model family. The philanthropic activities actually appealed to my good-hearted girlfriend, but not even the threat of a face-first trip through a chipper shredder could have compelled her to admit as much to her parents.
    â€œI’m almost ready to go,” she told me, “but I still need to sign out and stuff. You want to wait out there?”
    She gestured in the direction of the lobby, and I gave an affable shrug in reply. Knowing January, it would take a lot longer than she made it sound, but I’d be happy to hang out in the AC for as long as possible. Before I could take a step toward the hallway, however, the general peace in the room was interrupted by an angry shout that rose up from a table in a near corner.
    Two men had lunged to their feet, chairs scraping across the floor and dishes scattering, and they squared off with rage-filled eyes. Before I even knew what the conflict was about, it had already escalated; one guy landed a blow on his opponent’s nose, bringing forth a jet of blood that painted the man’s graying beard a vivid scarlet, and the would-be victim immediately retaliated with an attempt at strangling his attacker. It all happened so quickly that we’d barely had a chance to react before the two men lurched abruptly in our direction, careening off tables and other diners like a runaway semi, a dangerous and uncontrolled burst of violence that promised a ton of collateral damage.
    I was just starting to move, aiming to get in front of January, when she darted past me and in the next instant placed herself directly between the two furious combatants. Her expression calm and her voice low, she gently pushed them apart, forcing them to acknowledge her. Their chests heaving, they stared daggers at each other over her head, but as January continued speaking, the destructive energy that had erupted with such abruptness began to dissipate just as quickly. Other volunteers rushed in then, converging on the scene urgently if already too late, and led the two angry pugilists away from each other.
    January sauntered back over to me, giving her hair a casual toss, acting like someone who’d just finished sorting out a mildly frustrating paper jam in the printer rather than stopping an honest-to-goodness bum fight in its tracks. I goggled at her, impressed. “I can’t believe you just did that.”
    â€œSomebody had to, and I was the closest,” she said with a verbal shrug, as if it were really that simple.
    â€œThey were huge and trying to kill each other,” I pointed out. “They were, like, four times your size—you could’ve been stomped into the linoleum!”
    â€œPlease, me and the girls could’ve taken ’em easy,” she blustered jokingly, flexing her biceps so I could see which girls she meant. “Fear is for suckers!”
    â€œSeriously, though.” I couldn’t quite let the subject go. I was still worried about her safety, even in retrospect, and wanted her to admit she’d been