Jim pulled the stocking cap over his ears, raised the collar on his camouflage jacket and zipped it tight. Lowering his head, his beard scratched the tattered lining and his whiskers pulled painfully between the zipper’s teeth.

A newspaper sat untouched and unread on his lap. He stared at the creases it made in the thin wool blanket below it. He expected that his legs were feeling the same stinging wind his neck felt, but he couldn’t know for sure.

Once again a line of cars formed at his side. Each windshield reflected the glowing traffic light and every tailpipe produced a cloud of smoke. Jim watched the drifts rise and then slowly fade into the morning sky.

Narrowing his eyes he saw a sleek black car with what appeared to be an alternating red light on the lower end of its hood. Approaching, the car’s window lowered and an outstretched, dark haired arm offered Jim a dollar.

Wheeling his chair nearer, Jim thought he heard a mechanized voice from inside the car say:

“That was very nice of you, Michael.”