I had exactly ten dollars left to my name.
Bus fare home.
A loaf of bread.
Three days of survival until my library check cleared.
I had it folded in my fist inside my coat pocket, and I was counting the blocks to the bus stop with both babies asleep against me.
Then I saw him.
An older man, tucked under a rusted awning outside a shuttered hardware store, soaked straight through.
He was shaking so hard it hurt to watch.
No cardboard sign.
No cup.
No voice asking anyone for anything.
Just a man the whole street was walking past like he was a pile of wet newspaper.
Invisible.
I knew exactly what that felt like.
I had been invisible in my own parents’ house.
I stopped.
I don’t fully know why, even now.
I had ten dollars and two mouths that depended on me and no business being generous.
