The car finally gave out behind a row of restaurants, wedged between dumpsters and delivery trucks that smelled like everything I couldn’t afford.
I sat there with my forehead pressed against the steering wheel, listening to traffic and trying not to lose it.
Eventually, hunger took over.
I slipped around back, hoping to find something that hadn’t been touched.
Bread.
Fries.
Anything.
I wasn’t proud of it.
I was just tired of going hungry.
That’s when someone called my name.
“Excuse me — are you Nathan Brooks?”
I went still.
When you’re living out of a car, being noticed is terrifying.
My first instinct was to leave.
Instead, I turned around.
He didn’t look like a police officer.
Or a social worker.
Or any kind of trouble.
He looked like he belonged somewhere entirely different.
Tailored suit.
Polished shoes.
Perfect tie.
The kind of man who normally wouldn’t end up behind restaurants.
