Seventy-four years old, perhaps.
Gray hair.
Thin shoulders.
An old brown backpack hanging from one hand.
His coat was soaked through.
I slowed the car.
He wasn’t holding a sign.
He wasn’t asking for money.
He was simply standing there as though he had forgotten where he was supposed to go.
I parked.
“Sir?”
He looked up.
His expression startled me.
He wasn’t angry.
He wasn’t embarrassed.
He simply looked tired.
“Are you all right?”
He gave a small smile.
“I’ve been better.”
“Do you have somewhere to go?”
He looked toward the street.
“Not tonight.”
Something inside me tightened.
I knew what it felt like to have a home disappear.
Not the same kind of disappearance.
But disappearance all the same.
I opened the passenger door.
“I can take you to the shelter.”
He hesitated.
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
He stared at me.
Then he climbed into the car.
