I’ve known this man for a couple of years now—he’s one of those familiar faces you can’t help but root for. The kind that disappears for months, then reappears as if time stood still. His story tends to follow a sad rhythm: he gets arrested, spends time in jail, gets released, and before long, he’s back out on the streets. Usually, I’m the one who finds him. But last week, for the first time ever, he found me.
I was chatting with a few friends outside the shelter, handing out goodie bags filled with water, snacks, and a little hope wrapped in plastic, when I saw him across the street. He stood there for a bit, like he was working up the courage to cross over. Then, just like that, he did.
He stopped beside me, quiet but present. “Hi, Ms. Pam,” he said, almost shy.
