It was the kid who saw me first, his dark eyes glancing up to meet mine. About seven or eight years old, he nudged his father, who stood facing impassively out into the traffic on Massachusetts Avenue, one arm firmly around his son’s shoulders. With his other hand the father held up a handmade sign: “My son and I are homeless. Please help.”
I’d hurried past them at first, toughened to such requests in the manner of a longtime city dweller. Buffeted by a freezing wind, carrying a heavy bag of groceries, I was anxious to get to the subway and home. But something about the father and son made me stop short only a few feet from the station doors.
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