It was 5 AM and I was still wearing the same shirt from yesterday, dragging a suitcase with the airport tag still flapping.
I'd flown in from a quick job out of state, and the desert dawn felt like a cold welcome.
In the parking lot of the duplex, I fumbled for my keys and my wallet hit the asphalt.
You were there—gray hair, walking a little dog—and you picked it up before I could.
You handed it to me without a word, didn't even glance at the cash poking out of the fold.
I checked the inside pocket anyway, out of habit, and found everything untouched.
I mumbled something about being tired, and you just nodded and kept walking.
Later, while unpacking, I saw the luggage tag and decided not to tear it off.
I kept it on for months. Every time I see it, I think of your quiet hands and the way you trusted me to be honest.