He was soaked through, rainwater dripping from his hair and beard onto my floor. His clothes were torn and hung on him like they didn’t quite belong. He shook uncontrollably, whether from cold, fear, or exhaustion, I couldn’t tell.
For one brief second, every instinct told me to step back. To close the door. To protect myself.
His eyes were sunken, hollowed out by something deeper than hunger. When he spoke, his voice barely rose above the sound of the storm.
“Please,” he whispered. “I just need help.”
That was it. The hesitation vanished.
I pulled him inside and shut the door behind us, locking out the rain, the wind, and whatever else had chased him there. I sat him down, grabbed towels, and wrapped them around his shoulders. He flinched at first, as if kindness itself surprised him.
I found dry clothes for him, old ones that had belonged to my father. A sweatshirt and pants that were far too big, but warm. I poured soup into a bowl and set it in front of him. He held it like it might disappear.
He told me his name was James.
He didn’t say much else that night. Only that he’d lost his job. Then his home. Then his family. One bad turn after another, until there was nothing left to lose.
I let him sleep on my couch while the storm battered the house. I stayed awake longer than usual, listening to the rain and wondering how someone could fall so far without anyone noticing.
