Once,

"I wonder if anyone in my family wonders how I'm doing," he asks, not particularly inquisitive. He doesn't care to know the answer.

It was one of those mornings that photographers dream of. Eight o'clock, the golden light filtered through the trees before falling upon the hood of his old burgandy Ford Tempo. He lights a cigarette before continuing.

"I've been homeless for a week now, aside from the night I stayed in Travis' bed, but I really appreciate your parents letting me sleep here on such short notice."

Travis was a barista at a local coffee chain who happened to be bisexual. He understood my friend wasn't interested, but was accepting enough to allow him to sleep nude in the bed. Both of them are less than responsible. He claims that even while intoxicated, nothing happened.

He clambers up his windshield to find a seat on the roof of the Tempo.

"I have an interview at Starbucks next week. Hopefully I can get some laundry done before then. Did I mention I found a $100 bill last night?"

He drags his marlboro slowly before letting the smoke roll out of his mouth and into the still-golden light.

"I had a pepperoni roll from the gas station last night. First time I'd had anything to eat in two days."

"Well," I reply, "would you like to grab a cup of coffee in town?"