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As we drove through the winding, narrow streets of rural Appalachia, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. There were houses in disrepair, stray dogs roaming the dirt streets, and no signs of the life I came from just a few hours away in North Carolina. We reached our destination, an abandoned school turned into the local community center, “Mama” greeted us with a welcoming smile. “How are y’all doing?” Fine, we murmured, wondering what we would be doing during our three days of service work. “We’re so glad to have you here. C’mon in.” She hugged each of us as we exited the van. The water line from a major flood stained and chipped the paint on the school wall, covering some of the names and paintings depicting local history. We would later add our names to the wall, solidifying our bond with that place. “When the coal mines stopped running, the county shut down,” Mama said as she showed us to our rooms. “There are no jobs here now. The schools shut down, and some kids ride the bus over two hours each day from the hollers to the nearest school. You’ll still find the nicest people here, though.” All of that was true. Mama arranged for a bluegrass band to play for us that first night. The banjo, double bass, fiddle, and guitars filled the room with sweet music, sharing stories of local history, and of the hard working, good-natured people. These people had nothing and everything at the same time. The houses shared the saddest stories, though. One house we repaired had a gaping hole in the side of it from a small electrical fire. The next house had a mold problem as a result of a water leak, and the young boy who lived there was having respiratory problems. I helped with siding the third house over the three days we were there. We replaced siding on two sides of the house so the residents would be able to weather the harsh winters with a little more protection. While taking a short break on our last day, my group sat on the front porch watching two dogs wander down the unpaved road searching for food, their rib cages sticking out awkwardly as they walked. The elderly man who lived in the house slowly opened the screen door to approach us. He had five orange sodas cradled in his worn and weathered hands. Without saying a word, he handed each of us a soda as he looked each of us in the eyes, and walked back into his house, not to be seen again. Our foreman told us that he was a retired army veteran. That can of soda was a small token of his appreciation—perhaps the only way he could offer his thanks. It’s difficult to imagine that you could form a bond with someone with whom you never speak, but I connected to that man through a can of orange soda. It’s as if he knew that orange soda was my favorite.