At 55, I’d learned to be cautious, especially when it came to trusting strangers. But that night, while taking out the trash behind the diner where I worked, I found a man huddled by a dumpster. His face was hidden by a tattered blanket, but his eyes—full of desperation—stopped me.I gave him a twenty and offered him a place to sleep for the night. He wasn’t dangerous, just cold and hungry, or so I thought. When he returned from the shower, clean and different, I recognized him. Roman. A cook I had worked with years ago,
fired for stealing money he claimed he didn’t take.He looked at me with steady eyes and said, “I didn’t steal it. I was set up.” His voice stirred something in me, and the memories came flooding back. Maybe I had misjudged,him.Roman explained how losing the job led him to lose everything—his apartment, his car, and eventually, his dignity. I remembered Miranda,