(Word count: 100)

He shuffled past my bumper. The shopping bag handles bloodied his swollen fingers, an entire life in plastic at the ends of his sleeves.

I first saw him under the overpass at Sanjon two weeks ago. Backpack on clearance gave me the idea.

“Excuse me? This is for you.” I held out my gift. Same bag as mine: pockets for iPhone, sunglasses. Waited for a smile.

“Why?” he stuttered.

My head swam. Who was I? Savior? No. Shithead.

“Please. For you.”

He took the bag, managed a smile that hurt him to make.

“What can I do for you?” he said.

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