Morning sunlight crept through the cracks of the overpass, warming Bobby’s face as he stirred from sleep.
Beside him sat a paper bag with two breakfast sandwiches, one for him and one for Raymond.
Raymond had shown up months earlier, younger, harder, carrying sharp eyes and a quicker tongue.
Bobby believed him when he said he just needed help getting back on his feet. Bobby always believed people.
When his monthly check came in, Bobby bought food, shoes, and even paid for motel rooms during cold nights.
Lately something changed. Raymond disappeared for days and returned only when money appeared. His words had grown sharper. His tone meaner.
That morning Raymond asked:
Bobby hesitated. A new blanket before winter sounded important. Necessary.
Miss Ethel's words echoed through his thoughts:
“Raymond... I done helped you a lot, man. It is time you start doing for yourself too.”
The room changed instantly. Raymond’s expression hardened.
“You callin' me a user?”
Bobby lowered his eyes. Truth felt heavier than silence.
Later Miss Ethel found him sitting quietly with coffee.
“Hurts, don’t it?”
“Yeah,” Bobby admitted. “But maybe some pain heals.”
That night Bobby lay beneath his blanket and realized something. Love had eyes. Love sometimes spoke hard truths.