It was a Tuesday when he came, shuffling through the carved iron doors. His face was bearded, through lack of care rather than design, and his blue eyes were empty of life from exhaustion, fuelled by the need to rest and breathe easy. I thank God that he found me because, on closer inspection, his forehead and hairline were crusted with old blood and he was smeared with days’ old dust and grime. He was hurt. His arm hung loosely and his right shoulder sloped dangerously low. He had strips of brown cloth wrapped around his feet, shoved into ill-fitting shoes as if some previous injury was being treated in the only way he knew how. My heart flew out to him as he lay down near me and sighed like a dying man. He had no money for food so he lay down and breathed in the fumes of other people’s hot food, because that is free, after all.
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