I ordered two shawarmas and two coffees without thinking, one for him and one to share warmth with the dog, and I carried them over before he could drift away. His hands shook so hard the lids rattled, and the blessing he whispered made me feel awkward, like I’d stepped into a story I didn’t deserve to be in. I listened, already trying to retreat back into my own life, when he stopped me with a soft wait. He pulled out a pen and scrap of paper, scribbled quickly, and pressed it into my hand with an intensity that didn’t match the smallness of the gesture, telling me to read it later. I shoved it into my coat pocket and hurried off, returning to the familiar noise of home where homework covered the table and teenagers argued about teachers and my husband talked about a new client as if the world was still orderly. The note stayed forgotten until the next evening when I emptied my pockets before laundry, and the words on that paper made my stomach go cold.
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