He reached into the pocket of my coat draped over the chair and withdrew a neatly stacked bundle of mail, envelopes separated meticulously into categories that reflected financial reality I had avoided confronting for weeks.
“I respected sealed correspondence,” he added quickly. “The notice from your landlord already lay open upon the counter this morning.”
The landlord’s letter.
Fear tightened mercilessly around my throat.
“You stand two notices away from eviction proceedings,” he said gently.
“I am painfully aware of that fact already.”
He looked at me then, eyes steady, expression analytical rather than pitying.
“I cannot contribute financially yet,” he continued. “However, I possess skills that could generate negotiation leverage with property management.”
A bitter laugh escaped before restraint intervened.
“You believe landlords distribute compassion as currency?”
“No,” he answered calmly. “Certain landlords respond to practical advantage rather than emotional appeal.”
Leverage.
The word resonated differently spoken by a man who had slept on concrete.