Hungry

I gave a homeless man some change the other day.

He was standing on the corner of Goucher Boulevard and Dulaney Valley Road. In the background was the Sheraton Hotel.

“Hungry. Homeless,” read his faded, creased sign.

His hands were swollen, dry and cracked, his untrimmed fingernails curving over his fingertips.

I wound down the window a second time.

“Excuse me, would you like a Little Debbie’s?” I asked. I’d been munching on the oatmeal-creme cookies instead of lunch and had another I was saving for my kids.

“Sure,” he said.

The traffic light had already turned green. But no one behind me honked.

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