My gaze was fixated on that one spotless tile. Head hanging as low as my confidence, panic rising in my chest as the red high on my cheeks, and the bright, colourful kickball in my hands that could have been echoing with happy platters of dribbling: now like the inside of the room- gapingly hollow.

The teacher had pried me into the secluded corridor, maneuvering us in a messy dance away from other volunteers, bustling nurses and residents. “So, I have a job for you, dear, up the school bus, fetch the toy box.” Eager, I stepped away in strides of pride before abruptly hauled to halt. “Hold on, distribution right after, alright?” My vigorously nodding swung away, barely meeting her, carried away by a slight skip.

The bus smelt of highschoolers’ pheromones and perspiration, yet my beaming, proud gaze shot through the haze to the dusty back- the very out-of-place colours.

“Choose a toy, for the children, it’d be nice to remind…...what good limbs are left.” Unimpressed, I watched her, definitely not my favourite teacher, make a two-fingered “walking” motion discriminatingly. “Give something to look forward to?”

Yearning that sense of good and accomplishment, I scurried back, vying against other recognition-hungry volunteers as if it was limited. Unlike them, I volunteered out of pure want to give, provide genuinely. I cradled the first gift, personally chosen, scampering to the young patient of the most dire of injuries.

I found myself with shame eating me from inside, wishing the deadly silent, scuffy room’s floor would swallow me too; feeling more lowly and disgusting than that discriminating educator. Alarmed voices of confusion echoed; was distribution not meant as handing out? Realisation of both misunderstandings dawned far too late as I stood before the innocent patient handicapped waist-down.