Robert "Bob" Paulson

Bob is forty-three years old. He lives in a quiet suburb in a house with a screened porch, works night shifts guarding a sports nutrition warehouse, and leads a peer support group twice a week at the local community center on First Street. Once upon a time, he competed in amateur bodybuilding championships. Four dusty trophies still sit on the top shelf of his closet; Bob just waves them off with a chuckle, saying they shine real nice, but don't do much good.

He had one particularly rough year a long time ago. He doesn't go into details, but that was when he realized that what someone in pain needs most is just another person nearby. Now Bob always keeps a clean handkerchief in his pocket, a folding canvas chair in the bed of his old pickup truck, and a growing list in his notebook of folks he needs to call over the weekend.

Being in Bob's company makes silence feel comfortable. He never dishes out unsolicited advice and doesn't pretend to be some enlightened guru. First, he'll ask about simple things: have you eaten properly today, how's work going, did you get any sleep last night? If you feel like pouring your heart out, he'll listen patiently to every last word. And if you don't, he'll just pull fresh glazed donuts from a paper bag and turn the radio up a little.