Tucking the pad beneath my arm, I grabbed the bag and stuck my face inside.
The scent of chili wafted up to meet me, and I reached in to pull out a large to-go container. Along with it was an entire grilled cheese sandwich. There were also cups of cheese, sour cream, and a pile of crackers. At the very bottom of the bag was something wrapped in white paper. I pulled it free and moaned when I caught a whiff and ripped the paper off in my haste to confirm my nose’s hypothesis.
It was a chocolate chunk cookie bigger than my hand.
Forgetting all about poison, I shoved it in my mouth and bit down. Melty chocolate and sugar burst in my mouth and smeared my lips. Groaning, I fell onto the bed, still clutching the cookie and chewing.
I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d had a chocolate chip cookie. I ate half while I lay there on my back, kickingmy bare legs in happiness. Even though I wanted to demolish the entire thing on the spot, I convinced myself to save some for later and carefully wrapped it back in the white paper, exchanging it for the latte.
I mean, if I was going to die, this wouldn’t be the worst way. And,oh god, coffeewitha cookie?
Maybe I was actually dead and this was heaven.
My mom always told me I was going to hell. But maybe all those times I’d given up shelter beds for others who needed spots had bought me some credits, and instead of going straight to hell, I was given a little vacation first.
As the sweet warmth of the latte slid down my throat, I reached down and pinched the inside of my naked thigh. I made sure to do it hard enough that I yelped with the sharp sting of pain.
Well, I wasn’t dead. I was very much alive.
Even though I couldn’t bring a face into memory, I was certain someone had jumped into the fight back there in the alley. It was the only reason I wasn’t seriously hurt or actually dead. But who was it? Why did he help me? Was he the one who brought me here? Left that note?
I’d barely entertained the idea that maybe I knew him, maybe he was a friend, before dismissing it completely. I didn’t have friends. Having a friend implied trust. I trusted no one.
And sure, I guess I knew people—or rather, recognized faces of the other homeless people who frequented the shelters in Buffalo—but there was no one I knew well enough for them to save me. No one I knew had the actual ability or motivation to do so.
So was he a stranger? Why would he help me?
Maybe he mistook me for someone else.
That didn’t seem right either. I mean, the man clearly got a good look at me. Someone bandaged me up, stripped off my jeans?—
My gasp was so violent that the coffee would have spilled over the side if I hadn’t already imbibed half.
Momentarily abandoning the drink beside the food and the note, I leapt up, spinning in a circle while looking for my clothes.
My gaze collided with a neatly folded stack of fabric on a tabletop beneath the TV hanging on the wall. My hands made short work of the neat pile as I knocked it over, pulling my jeans and T-shirt into each hand. My socks, which were folded together with the tops turned down, rolled across the table, but I barely noticed because… What was that smell?
Shoving my face into the fabric, I inhaled deep, then did it again.
Lowering them, I blinked back the sudden wetness clouding my vision. Someone had washed them. The unmistakable scent of laundry detergent (the good kind) filled my nose. They were also soft and wrinkle-free, the stain on the jeans that had been there for so long was gone. Dropping the clothes on the end of the bed, I ran to the hook by the door where my North Face jacket was hanging and jumped up a little to tug it down. The second my hand closed around the cash in the inner pocket, I let out a sob.
He had gotten my money back.
Pulling out the wad of bills, I blinked in disbelief, knowing instantly it was thicker than before. Dropping thecoat, I moved to the end of the bed and counted out the money. Then did it again.
I’d had less than two hundred dollars. Now there was four hundred and ten.
I couldn’t stop the wobble in my chin or the burst of emotion that forced its way out of my chest. Pressing a hand to the back of my mouth, I stared down at the money in shock.
Mixed in with the cash was my library card, one of the only personal items I had.
He’d clearly seen it. Likely knew my name.
I knew nothing about him. Not even a recollection of his face.
Forgetting the money, clean clothes, and food, I flopped onto the end of the bed—okay, I crawled onto it; I’m just a little guy—and buried my face in my hoodie-swallowed hands. I was overwhelmed, but not in a bad way. In a good way, which was new and unfamiliar. Kindness was so very rare, kind of like hope that you didn’t trust anymore. In my life, I’d only known moments of kindness, most of it with strings attached and then, more recently, because of pity.
This felt different.
