The winter wind cut through our apartment building like it had a personal grudge against everyone living inside.
Every evening it whistled beneath the front entrance, carrying bits of snow and the smell of frozen pavement into the narrow hallway.
I usually hurried inside without looking around.
That Thursday was different.
My eight-year-old son, Liam, stopped walking halfway up the front steps.
“Mom.”
I looked back.
He was staring toward the bus stop across the street.
Curled beneath the small metal shelter sat an older man wrapped in a threadbare brown coat.
His beard was gray.
His gloves did not match.
His shoes were soaked from melting snow.
Most people walked past without slowing down.
Liam didn’t.
“He’s shaking.”
“I know, sweetheart.”
“Where is his family?”
“I don’t know.”
“Doesn’t anybody care?”
His question landed harder than I expected.
Because I honestly didn’t know the answer.
I handed him the grocery bags while pretending to search for my keys.
Mostly I was buying time.
Liam kept watching the stranger.
“He looks cold.”
“He does.”
“Can we help?”
“We can bring him something to eat.”
Liam nodded.
“But he’ll still be cold.”
That sentence stayed with me all evening.
After dinner he barely touched his food.
He kept glancing toward the window overlooking the street.
The man was still there.
Snow had started falling harder.