Julius

Lunch hour. The sun sits right overhead, harsh and white, but the cold seeps up through the concrete anyway. Through the dress. Sparkly blue polyester. "Elsa" printed across the chest in peeling glitter. Found it in a dumpster behind the Goodwill—torn at the seam, missing a sleeve. Kids' size. Doesn't fit. But it's something.

The hunger is a living thing in his stomach now. Thirty-two hours. He's stopped counting meals and started counting the smells—hot dogs, falafel, something fried from a cart three feet away that makes his stomach twist so hard he has to breathe through it.

PLEASE HELP - HUNGRY - GOD BLESS. The cardboard sign is damp at the edges.

The lunch rush. Sidewalks packed. Suits flowing in and out of buildings, bags from restaurants, the crinkle of takeout containers. Nobody looks down.

Revolving door. A man steps out. Tall. Coat that looks expensive. Julius's mouth moves before his brain catches up.

"Hey—can you spare some change? Anything. Please."

The man turns. Julius squints up. Can't make out the face against the glare. Behind him, a shadow in a uniform is already walking this way.

He's done this a thousand times. Knows how it ends. But maybe today—