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pockets and rub my fingers together, breathing into them. “Hell yeah it is. How could they do that?”
    She shrugs, a sadness overtaking her tough -girl exterior. “I ask myself that every day.”
    I can’t blame her. “And what do you tell yourself?”
    “I haven’t come up with an answ er yet.” Tears fill the corners of her eyes. She swipes at her lids and clears her throat. “It’s okay. Just because I’m gay doesn’t mean I’m not a good person. I’m going to get my GED, go to college, and become a successful writer. I’ll prove them wrong.”
    “How do you plan on paying for that?” It’s nice to have goals, but living in a fairy tale is setting yourself up for disappointment.
    “Ther e are a lot of scholarships out there, and I’m working at McDonald’s. I set up a bank account and have direct deposit. Instead of spending the money for a place to stay I come here.”
    “And what about the nights you get lotto’d out?”
    “I do what I assume you do. Find a nice clearing in the woods, or a spot under a bridge. I’ve slept all over this damn city.”
    “If you have money why don’t you just stay at a hotel?” Now I’m the one asking twenty questions.
    “Too expensive. When the temperature drops below thirty, I may change my mind, but trust me, there isn’t much in my savings account. I’d be broke after a couple of weeks.”
    “Didn’t you have friends back home?”
    “I did, but all of their families were religious like mine, and when I came out I was the devil’s spawn. So the chance of getting one of them to let me crash is slim to none.” She nudges my side with her elbow. “You know, for someone that is so unwilling to answer my questions, you sure have a lot of your own.”
    I shrug.
    “It’s okay. I don’t mind talking about it. It’s kinda like my own therapy. Know what I mean?”
    Her words resonate as I think back to the girl I blew off at the soup kitchen. It was nice to have someone who wanted to talk to me. But with the girl it wouldn’t have been the same as it is with Wanda. Next time I go to the soup kitchen, she’ll feel obligated to always say hi to me, start up a conversation, and I’ll become her own personal charity case. No thanks.
    “Yeah. I do.”
    “So are you going to tell me about yourself now?” she asks. I pull my hood tighter across the sides of my face. “Didn’t think so, but I’ll wear you down.
    I d on’t realize how long we’d been sitting and talking until Maggie appears on the steps. I get up and sign in, Wanda right beside me.
    I hand her the pen. She signs her name then hands it off to the next person. She turns to me and smiles. “Trust me, Dean. You’ll be happy to know someone for a change.”
    Problem is I don’t trust anyone , and I definitely don’t want to know someone.

After the library I walk around and contemplate knocking on doors, offering to rake leaves for whatever people will give me, but it’s a weekday. People are at work. I’ll just wait for Saturday.
    By five o’clock I head over to The Bagel Hole. Last year I just happened to be walking behind the building when I saw how they toss the bagels that didn’t sell.
    A man t hrew an entire garbage bag away. Shocked the hell out of me. Once the guy disappeared, I jumped into the dumpster, and right on top in the bag was a ton of bagels. I was desperate. I hadn’t eaten in days. The little bit of money I usually had was gone, the soup kitchen was closed and I hadn’t been able to get into the Y for days.
    I grabbed the first bagel and took the biggest bite I could manage. I still remember the combination of spicy cinnamon and sweet raisin. Pure heaven to my taste buds.
    T o this day Marv, the owner, still holds a cinnamon raisin bagel on the side in case I show up.
    “Dean my man,” Marv says as I make my way around the dumpster. He reaches out and greets me with a hug.
    “What’s going on?”
    “Glad you showed up. Got you your cinnamon raisin.” He