My initial encounter with him occurred on a cold Tuesday evening at the start of fall. He was positioned outside the all-night laundry, huddled on a torn, weathered sleeping pad that had lost much of its cushion. The bright, artificial glow from the laundry’s lights extended onto the pavement, rendering the moment both harsh and strangely personal.
Lying on his chest was a small orange cat missing part of one ear, its paws folded neatly beneath its chin. The pair appeared to breathe as one, as if sharing that single rhythm was all the solace they required.
His footwear was nearly falling apart, the bottoms worn down and mended with pieces of silver duct tape. His “bag” wasn’t an actual backpack—only a black plastic garbage bag secured at the top, placed like a vulnerable keepsake next to him. I didn’t know their names at that point, or anything about their past, but the gentle, shielding manner in which he held the cat made me pause.
I had a night shift at a coffee shop a short distance away, and on a whim, I started taking them extra food—soup in a disposable cup, unsold baked goods, or a sandwich enclosed in wax paper.