Every time I go to CVS, there he is. Sitting outside. Is he sitting out in the pouring rain today? Once, on a bitter winter day, I saw his wheelchair in the lobby of the store. Did a kind employee invite him in? Or did they simply not notice him, too busy with customers?

One time, as I offered him my usual, useless, helplessly friendly nod, he asked if I could spare some change. Stooped in his wheelchair, useless legs propped on the footrests, he offered a sad toothless smile.

I stopped. I do not carry cash. “I’m sorry” I said.

“Tha’s okay ma’am.” He looked away. I felt privileged and heartless. I went back inside. I bought a granola bar, hoping it was soft enough for him to chew it. I tried to find other plausible snacks, things other than roasted almonds, things not loaded with sugar. But what does it matter, if he is he hungry.

He has not asked since. Sometimes he offers a smile as I walk by him. Yesterday, he sat slumped forward and sideways in his chair. Asleep maybe? He was breathing, I checked.

Come to think of it, does he have any family? Where does he sleep? On the church steps at the corner? At the homeless shelter a couple of miles away? How does he get there? Does someone drop him off at CVS every morning? Pick him up at night? Or does he wheel himself to the strip of grass at the edge of the parking lot? Does he roll out of the chair under those trees to spend the night? And what does it take, with arms thin as sticks, to get back into the chair?