“Everyone. They look sad.”
“We are not equipped to help today. I need to get you home.”
The words tasted wrong even as he spoke them. They were automatic, reflexive, something he had learned to say in boardrooms and charity galas where donations were given like breadcrumbs to starving pigeons. He knew it, and yet he said it anyway.
The car rolled forward. Then Milo gasped.
“Papa. Stop. Please stop. Look over there.”
There was urgency in his tone that made Augustine raise his eyes. On the side of the road, next to a dumpster overflowing with plastic bags and rotting food, lay a stained mattress. On that mattress, curled around one another like fragile creatures hiding from a storm, were two children.
Augustine blinked hard. “Those are just sleeping. Some families. They are probably waiting for someone.”
Milo shook his head. “No. They are like me.”
The SUV pulled over. Augustine stepped out, straightening his expensive coat instinctively. He reached for Milo’s hand. The smell hit him first. Smoke. Sewage. Something metallic. Life stripped down to survival.