The cold that evening cut straight through layers of wool and routine, the kind of winter chill that makes a long workday feel heavier than it already is. I had just finished another late shift at the sporting goods store where I’d worked for nearly two decades. After seventeen years of marriage, two teenagers, and an endless cycle of responsibilities, I thought I’d seen everything life could throw at me. That illusion disappeared somewhere between the bus stop and a small shawarma stand glowing under flickering streetlights .
The day itself had been exhausting in ways that stack quietly until they become overwhelming. Holiday shoppers argued over refunds for gear they’d clearly used. One of the registers jammed repeatedly. My daughter had texted me about failing another math test, and my mind was already calculating the cost of tutoring, adjusting budgets, and shifting priorities. The temperature had dropped well below freezing, the wind slicing between buildings and pushing scraps of paper down the sidewalk like reminders of everything unfinished.
I almost walked past the shawarma stand. The food was good, fast, and cheap, but the vendor’s permanent scowl usually kept me moving. That night, though, something made me slow down. A man stood a few feet away, maybe in his mid-fifties, his shoulders hunched against the cold. Beside him was a small dog, thin, shivering, pressed tightly against his leg. Both stared at the rotating meat with the kind of quiet hunger that doesn’t beg, because it’s learned that begging often changes nothing.
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