The first time I saw him was outside the 24-hour laundromat, tucked into the corner where the flickering neon sign cast a pale pink glow over the cracked sidewalk.

He was lying on a ripped camping mat, curled up like he’d finally found a position that didn’t hurt. Across his chest was a cat — small, orange, missing half an ear — stretched out like she’d claimed him as her own. The rise and fall of her breathing matched his, as if they’d been doing this for years.

Even in sleep, you could tell life had roughed him up. His shoes were held together with strips of duct tape, the fabric fraying at the edges. His “backpack” was nothing more than a black trash bag, tied twice at the top, slouched beside him like it was too tired to stand.

I didn’t know his name then. I didn’t know hers either. But I started bringing them food from the café where I worked the night shift. Nothing extravagant — an extra muffin here, a cup of soup there. Once, a grilled cheese sandwich that a customer never picked up.
He never asked for anything. Always thanked me. And he always, without fail, made sure the cat ate first.