As I slowed down to make the left turn, I saw him out of the corner of my eye.
He was near Massachusetts Avenue and the entrance to 395 South here in DC. He was standing between construction cones and Jersey barricades. It was dark, and there weren’t any streetlights nearby either. He wasn’t far from several other panhandlers.
Without thinking much about it, I assumed I knew what the sign he held would say.
But it didn’t tell a sad story (“Wife died.