I have learned, since that afternoon, to look twice at the people the world has stopped seeing — the ones on the cold benches, the ones in the worn shoes — because I know now what I did not know then: that you can never tell what story is hidden under the grime, what family is somewhere aching to find them, what single terrible night set them adrift.

The filthy, exhausted woman who stepped into my foyer did not need my pity.

She needed someone to look at her long enough to see who she truly was.

Sometimes that is all any of it takes.

A warm meal.

An open door.

A tub full of warm water.

And the willingness, at last, to really look.

THE END.