The barefoot child approached my motorcycle at midnight holding a ziplock bag full of quarters and begged me to buy her baby formula. She Said Her Baby Brother Was Starving And Her Parents Had Been Asleep For Days

Beard like a lumberjack and enough tattoos to make church ladies cross the street.

But fifteen years ago, I was a different man.

Back then I was the guy sleeping in vans like the one parked near pump number three.

That life nearly killed me.

Which is why I noticed her.