Sitting at the Greyhound stop, Ian stared at the straggly man stumbling toward him down Storrs Avenue. Even from two hundred yards away, Ian could tell the guy was living in the street. He felt a pang of empathy.
“Not my problem,” he thought, glancing at his phone. 1:47. “Five more minutes and I’m out of Middlebury forever.”
He went back to reading the old copy of Cooks Illustrated he’d grabbed on his way out the door of the apartment he had no intention of ever seeing again. Ian found comfort in the magazine’s recipe for Sheet Pan Pizza, even though the East Coaster in him scoffed at the concept.
He glanced at his phone again and looked for an approaching bus. Nothing. “As bad as the airlines,” he thought, although that led him to daydream about a happier time with Alan in Cabo.
A strange stench broke Ian out of his reverie. He turned to see the straggly man standing almost in front of him.
“Look, I’m sorry,” Ian said, “but I don’t have any money to–” He caught his breath as he met the man’s eyes.
“Matt?”