I met a man on the street whose sad eyes told a story of pain hidden behind the smell of his drink and the slur of his words. His voice was like a desperate cry for help, though it came out in jumbled, silly phrases. And then, a lady appeared by my side, concerned. “Watch out for your car. Your trunk’s open. He’ll take your things.” I smiled and said, “It’s just a car. I’m not worried. What’s your name?” She looked nervously at the man and said, “Never mind me. He’s getting close—do something, or you’ll lose your things.”