The not knowing part

Driving down 35th Saturday night, we saw the kid I gave money to outside the bank, earlier the same day. He was sitting on the pavement when we got out of the car. He wanted a dollar and when I went for my wallet, he upped it to two. I go in and out of giving away my money and often don’t, but had just come off spending hundreds and thought I should, for some reason.

He had something wrong with him, I could tell by his speech, and he seemed scornful about taking my money, which caused me to freeze before I gave it to him and look at him hard, the way I do with my kids sometimes. He softened, and I realized I was treating him like a dog.

We cashed out our savings account and when we came out, he was gone.

About pinklightsabre

William Pearse publishes memoir, travel journals, poetry and prose, and lives in the Pacific Northwest.
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