11/19/2025
Thank you to everyone who has donated food and hygiene items and other gifts! ❤️
If you feel moved to donate, here is an Amazon link. https://www.amazon.com/hz/wishlist/ls/2L17U22JLBKME?ref_=wl_share
We are continuing to collect warm items (think mittens, socks, blankets, PJs, hats), toilet paper, laundry money, gas money
Thanks in advance
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Weisman Medical Services is more than just a doctor's office..it is a safe landing spot. A medical home.
I found this story today after I posted, so an edit. In this story it's "seat 13" in my office it's called "the back table" or "the table in the back"
If you need help, text or call 812 441 4290
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For the past two years, I’ve been running an unauthorized operation on my 6 a.m. school bus route. The district enforces a strict “zero tolerance” policy on food. They’ve got a rule for everything.
But they don’t know about seat thirteen.
My name’s Hank Carter. I’m 57 years old and have been driving Route 12 longer than I can remember—long enough to watch the auto plant close and the dollar stores take its place. I start my engine at 5:45 a.m., when the cold cuts deep enough to feel personal. The radio’s always full of political shouting and talk of budget cuts. All I pray for are green lights and kids who look both ways.
Seat thirteen is my trouble spot. It’s right behind the emergency exit on the left side. Every bus has one seat that feels haunted. Thirteen is mine.
It started two winters ago. The town was bleak. A new boy got on one morning, hood pulled down so low I could only see his chin. He moved like a ghost, his backpack hanging off one shoulder. When he passed, I caught a whiff of it—that damp smell of clothes dried too slow in a cold house.
He sat in thirteen and just disappeared into himself.
At school, he waited until everyone else had gotten off. When he finally stood, he left behind two perfect, wet outlines where his shoes had leaked melted snow through the holes in their soles.
That night, I couldn’t sleep.
The next morning, I showed up to the depot at 5 a.m. with a plain brown paper bag. Inside, I packed a chewy granola bar, a small juice box, two hand-warmers, and a pair of thick socks from the discount store. I set it on seat thirteen. On a scrap of paper, I wrote:
**For whoever needs it. No questions asked.**
When the kids loaded up, I made sure not to check the mirror. I just drove. But when we reached the school, I saw it—the bag was empty, folded neatly, tucked under the seat.
The next day, I did it again. Then again. After a week, a note appeared—written in that shaky, hard-pressed handwriting kids have:
**Thanks. The socks are warm.**
After that, thirteen became our secret.
It didn’t go viral online. It spread the real way—quietly.
One Wednesday, the popular girl—the one who always looks like she walked out of a magazine—paused by the seat and slipped in a stick of lip balm.
A week later, the quiet boy from fourth grade, the one who never talks, added a fresh pack of colored pencils.
The night custodian, Sal—a veteran—caught me packing a bag one morning. He didn’t say much. Just nodded. The next day, there was a bulk box of cereal on my driver’s seat, already portioned into plastic baggies. “I remember being hungry,” he said.
In April, the school tried to hand me a “Community Contribution” plaque. I said thank you and left it in my locker. A piece of paper doesn’t warm a kid’s feet at dawn.
The real reward came in May.
One of the regulars, Jayden—spiky hair, teenage attitude—climbed aboard looking wrecked. Red eyes. He sat in thirteen, staring at the bag. I saw his hand hover over it, then pull back like it burned.
At the last stop, he stood, grabbed the bag, and walked two rows up.
He tapped a new kid on the shoulder—a smaller boy with a thin jacket and a dirty cast.
“Here,” Jayden mumbled, not looking at him. “This is for you.”
My hands clenched the wheel until my knuckles went white. My eyes blurred. Sometimes, the bravest thing you’ll ever see happens between two neighborhood stops on a Tuesday morning.
By summer, seat thirteen was overflowing—not with kids, but with offerings.
A music teacher left a packet of hot cocoa. A cleaning mom tucked in an unused bus pass.
One morning, I found a note written in elegant cursive:
**My son used this seat last month. He’s eating breakfast again. Thank you for seeing him.**
On the last day of school, the bus buzzed with that end-of-year freedom. Before they all poured out, I stood up.
“Listen up,” I said, my voice cracking. “That seat—number thirteen—it belongs to all of us. If you need what’s in the bag, you take it. If you’ve got extra, you leave it. That’s the rule.”
They nodded. They understood.
We start fresh every August. New faces, same route, same old bus. And the bag is always there. I add a note to it now:
**You matter.**
People on TV and the internet spend hours yelling about what’s wrong with this country—how we’re divided, broken, full of hate.
Maybe. But they’re not on my bus at 6:15 a.m.
They don’t see a high school linebacker quietly drop a five-dollar bill in a paper bag.
They don’t see a little girl share her fruit snacks.
They don’t see a kid with nothing give something to a kid with less.
I can’t fix gas prices or Washington arguments or the fact that some parents work two jobs and still can’t afford breakfast.
But I can claim one two-by-two square of cracked vinyl—and make sure it’s never empty.
You don’t need a committee or a government grant to change a life.
You just need a place, a routine, and the heart to leave something behind for whoever comes next.
Seat thirteen belongs to all of us.
And as long as it stays full, so do we.
