Fifteen years after our divorce, I found my ex-wife living beneath a bridge with one leg gone.

When I tried to help her, she looked at me and said, “You already abandoned us once.”

Part 1

“Don’t take pictures of that woman.”

Alistair Carpenter’s voice was sharp enough that the reporters lowered their cameras at once.

The director of the Crestview Clinic had just announced a huge donation to the press — eighty million dollars to shelter homeless people through the freezing Minneapolis winter.

His tailored suit, his expensive watch, and the black car idling at the curb belonged to a different world than the row of small tents pitched under the highway bridge by the river.

He’d come to the camp to smile, pose for the photos, and leave. Then he saw her.

A thin woman came slowly out of a blue tent, leaning on two battered crutches. Her right leg was gone below the knee. Long, tangled hair hung across her face, and when she finally looked up, Alistair felt the air go out of him.

It was Nellie Fields. His ex-wife.

Fifteen years ago, Nellie had lived in a beautiful house in Wayzata. She’d hosted dinners for wealthy businesspeople and stood beside him at every hospital gala.

Now she wore a threadbare sweater and a torn skirt, and her crutches were held together with gray tape.

“Nellie?” he whispered.

She looked at him, and what showed in her eyes wasn’t surprise. It was fear. She turned to walk away.