– Fair is fair, – he said simply.
Aaliyah had to turn away so he wouldn’t see her crying.
George wasn’t at the bus stop on Monday morning. Aaliyah stood there with the sandwich and thermos, scanning the empty sidewalk in confusion. His cardboard was gone. His trash bag of belongings was gone. Even the damp spot where he usually slept had dried up, leaving no trace he had ever been there.
She waited until her bus came and went. She waited through the next one. By the time she finally climbed aboard the third bus, she was going to be late for her shift, and her chest felt hollow. She told herself he had just moved to a different spot. People did that. Maybe someone had hassled him. Maybe the police had cleared the block. It didn’t mean anything bad had happened.
But she checked the spot again that evening after work. Still nothing. Tuesday morning, empty. Wednesday, empty. By Thursday, Aaliyah couldn’t ignore the knot of dread in her stomach anymore. She stopped by the Mercy Street shelter on her way home from the grocery store, even though it was ten blocks out of her way and her feet were killing her.
The woman at the intake desk barely looked up from her paperwork.
– Name?
– I’m looking for someone. George Fletcher. Older white man, late sixties, usually sleeps near the bus stop on Clayton.
– We don’t track people who don’t check in here.
– Can you just look? – Aaliyah pressed. – Please?
The woman sighed heavily and typed something into her computer. She waited a moment, then shook her head.
– No one by that name in our system.
– What about the hospitals? Is there a way to check?
– You family?
– I’m… – Aaliyah hesitated. – I’m a friend.
– Then no. Privacy laws.
The woman’s tone softened just slightly.
– Look, honey, people move around. He probably found another spot. They always do.
Aaliyah called three hospitals that night. None of them would tell her anything without a family connection or a patient ID number, neither of which she had. On the seventh day, she went back to the bus stop with a brown paper bag and a note inside. Hope you’re okay. A. She left it where George usually slept and tried not to think about what it meant that she was leaving food for a ghost.
That afternoon, he was there.
Aaliyah almost missed her stop on the bus ride home because she wasn’t expecting to see him. But there he was, sitting on the same flattened cardboard, his trash bag beside him, looking thinner than before. His face was more drawn, his skin pallid.
She got off at the next stop and ran back.
– George!
He looked up, and for a split second, she thought he didn’t recognize her. Then his face softened.
– Miss Aaliyah.
She crouched down beside him, breathing hard.
– Where were you? I checked shelters. I called hospitals.
– Had a spell. – His voice was raspier than usual. – I’m all right now.
– You don’t look all right.
– I’m upright. That counts for something.
He tried to smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. That was when she noticed his hand. A fresh scar ran across the back of it, still pink and healing. It looked surgical, too clean and precise to be from a fall or a street fight.
– What happened to your hand?
George pulled his sleeve down quickly to cover it.
– Nothing. Old wound acting up.
– George!
– I’m fine.
His tone left no room for argument. They sat in silence for a moment, the city noise washing over them. Then George reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a sealed envelope. It was white, slightly crumpled, with an address written in shaky handwriting on the front. He held it out to her.
– If something happens to me, – he said quietly, – I need you to mail this.
Aaliyah stared at the envelope.
– What do you mean ‘if something happens’?
– Just promise me.
– You aren’t going anywhere.
– Aaliyah. – His voice was firm, serious. – Promise me.
She took the envelope. It felt heavier than she expected, as if it contained something more than just paper.
– I promise.
George nodded slowly, like a great weight had lifted from his shoulders.
– Good girl.
She wanted to ask what was inside, wanted to ask why he had been gone, where he had been, and what that scar really meant. But her bus was coming, and George had already closed his eyes, leaning back against the brick wall like the conversation had exhausted his last reserves of energy. Aaliyah slipped the envelope into her bag and caught the bus. She didn’t open it. Not yet.
Two weeks later, George collapsed.
Aaliyah was handing him the thermos of coffee when his hand started shaking. Not the usual tremor from cold or age. This was different. It was violent. The thermos slipped from his fingers and clattered onto the sidewalk, hot coffee spilling across the concrete.
– George?
He tried to say something, but his words came out slurred and unintelligible. His eyes rolled back, and then his whole body folded, knees buckling, shoulders crumpling forward. Aaliyah caught him before his head hit the pavement, taking his weight onto her own small frame.
– Somebody call 911! – she screamed.
A woman across the street pulled out her phone. A man in jogging gear stopped, hesitated, then kept running. Two people getting off the bus just stared. Aaliyah lowered George onto his side, her hands shaking uncontrollably. His breathing was shallow and erratic. His lips were turning a terrifying shade of pale.
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