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already woken the man, who sat up when Harold stood over him.
    Before Harold could begin his speech, the man spoke. “Hey, mister, come closer.”
    Harold decided he’d listen graciously to the apology and all would be forgiven. He stood as close as the foul aroma would allow. “Yes?” He waited, his toe tapping to indicate this better not take long.
    “Here.” Instead of a plea for forgiveness, though, the guy was trying to get him to take the grease-stained and wrinkled brown paper bag from yesterday’s bagel offering. “Take it!”
    Stomach churning, Harold couldn’t imagine what vile or illegal substance lurked inside today. He swallowed back a dry heave and rocked back on his heel. “What is it?”
    “I need you to keep this for me,” the transient gruffed, eyes flicking back and forth. “Unless you think you’re too good to help out someone like me.”
    Harold tried not to let his disgust show. Soften the edges, Clyde had advised.
    “Take it.”
    Harold couldn’t imagine what was happening.
    Gnarled fingers, knuckles thick from hard labor, gripped the sack, its top rolled over several times. “It’s very important that you keep it…safe for me.”
    Probably some kind of drug paraphernalia. Harold was not about to let him foist the like on him, and was glad to see a pair of uniformed cops approaching. “Nu-uh.”
    “I’ll show you what it is.” An arthritic hand reached in the bag and Harold stiffened until a gold cylinder about the size of a chubby fountain pen appeared. The man started to lift it to a rheumy eye, but a couple of joggers passing seemed to startle him, and he crammed it back in the bag and thrust it toward Harold.
    The officers stopped a few yards away to give some tourists directions.
    “On the outside, it’s a kaleidoscope. When you hold it up to your eye, you can see pretty things.” The wool cap was pulled low, and his bilious eyes darted side to side beneath the frayed rim. Something greasy glinted in his thick beard.
    “I know what a kaleidoscope is.” Harold didn’t move to accept it.
    “Then go on, take it. Please.” Pushing back the blankets, the drifter rolled over, preparing to get up. The officers moved toward them. His coveralls and work boots were sturdy compared to the clothes most of the other street people wore.
    None of this seemed worth a confrontation, and to get the chore behind him, Harold accepted the bag and removed the object, imagining germs crawling its length and onto his thumb and forefinger. It was heavier than it appeared. Something internal changed the center of gravity, throwing off its balance. “This has something in it.” Probably crystal meth.
    “Of course it does. Go on. Hold it up to your eye and spin the dial.”
    “I know how it works.” If it was a drug mule, the spinning parts wouldn’t function properly. He spun until a colorful shape blossomed. “Why don’t you just give it to one of those officers? I’m sure there’s a lost and found bin in the precinct.” He held the device, now warm, to the man.
    They were standing now, eye to eye. “It’s not lost,” he hissed, shoving it hard into Harold’s chest. “Please.”
    The police were approaching, making a sweep of the sidewalk. “All right, it’s daylight. Everyone up.” The taller officer was toeing the blankets, urging sleeping forms to their feet. They were standing, rolling their blankets, the officers supervising.
    Streams of suits and skirts, sepia silhouettes bumping and jostling toward their granite cubicles, muttered impatiently as they brushed past. Their terse “in the way, buddy” and “’scuse me” remarks prodded Harold to step off the sidewalk onto the wet grass. He recalled something the priest had said. “Sometimes God asks you to do things you won’t understand.”
    “All right. But why me? Why don’t you just keep it?”
    Scanning back and forth like he was expecting the mothership, the derelict waggled a finger. “I have something