At the end, she offered referrals to a physical therapist and a trauma-informed counselor, and asked if he had a safe place to sleep.

He glanced at me and then answered on his own.

“I do for now.

My niece has a room.

I’m learning how to use it.”

We both smiled, though my eyes welled up.

That evening he showed me the rusty brass key he had kept tied to his bootlace for decades.

It opened a little locker at the old factory site, he said, or it used to.