He comes back to the car and sets his mug on the roof. I point at the passenger seat and he opens the door and grabs his wallet. He picks up his coat too, revealing a small, square, black radio beneath it. He hesitates, holding his wallet and coat.

Goddamn radio, how’d it get there?

He opens his wallet, makes a show of counting his money and credit cards, but his fingers shake and he drops the wallet on the pavement. I hand it back to him.

I always put it under the seat.

I didn’t take it.

I know. I’m sorry for what I said earlier. I respect what you’re doing, getting sober. Really. I know. How long’s it been?

Not long.

But it feels long?

Yeah. Yeah, it does.

That’s how I felt. I made fifteen years. Fifteen. Jesus. It got too long for me and I just fell off. Man, I stopped drinking, made my meetings and then I just fell off and now I’m messing up.

He looks away and I see his eyes tearing up.

Look at me. I couldn’t find my goddamn radio under my goddamn coat. Christ. Don’t you just hate yourself sometimes?

I don’t know about that. I wouldn’t say hate. Not yet anyway.

Wait’ll you do the fourth step, the man says. Wait’ll you start making amends. You’ll see.

He sniffles and I hear Cart Man pushing his load away from the curb. The rusted wheels grate on their axles and the bottles and cans click, clack, click as he moves forward.

The man doesn’t pay him any attention. He holds his mug in one hand and jams the radio, coat, and wallet under his other arm. He’s still a little weepy.

You take care, he says. Take it easy.

I begin stretching again. I reach for my toes, trying to keep my knees locked. Then I straighten and twist from side to side, faster and faster. I lean back and roll my head. Stars explode when I blink my eyes.

Fifteen fucking years, I think. Fifteen. Jesus.

I start running. I pass Cart Man and a woman walking her dogs. A bus stops at Haight and Masonic and I listen to traffic somewhere far away. I splash through muddy puddles that stain my pants as I pick up my pace. I pump my arms harder. Moonlight carves the street into shifting, jagged shapes. Leaves stick to my shoes. The sound of my running bounces off houses, my breath coming in gasps until the ache in my chest is too much. I stop, bend over, hands on my knees, sucking in air. I hear Cart Man behind me and look back. I see the dark outline of the carts approaching, hear the noise of the cans like the tolling of bells, and I watch my neighbor walking up the porch steps, one hand on the railing. He looks out at the street like someone stranded on shore. He backs up, switches off the outside light, enters the darkness of his house, and closes the door. I hear it shut. The night closes around me and I start running again.

Tom

Raymond lost Martin’s money.

What are you talking about?

Laird goes: Martin told me. Raymond told him and then Martin told me. I still buy him breakfast, you know, to make sure he eats, and we talk.

Getting Martin breakfast, that’s really nice of you, I say. Have him over to your bachelor pad, do you? You cook those Egg McMuffins yourself?

Laird ignores my dig. He had sort of adopted Martin. At least that’s what he wanted people to think. Like he was Martin’s Mother Teresa. Look at me. Look at how I’m doing more for Martin than anybody else. Then Raymond stepped in and did for Martin what Laird hadn’t, and he didn’t boast about it either. Raymond’s a minister. He preaches on Sundays at a storefront church a few blocks south of here near Civic Center Park. Not some guy with a matchbook degree, but a real minister with a real degree from the University of San Francisco hanging above his desk inside a frame nice enough to know he didn’t buy it at Walgreens. That frame and diploma are the only unhumble things about Raymond.

Raymond was handling Martin’s money through a friend at a bank, Laird says. You didn’t know that?

I don’t answer. I look up at the sky, feel the sun on my face, and let out a long breath. Of course I knew. Everyone knew. Martin talked.

I got a meeting with McGraw, I tell Laird.

I don’t really. I just want to get away from Laird. It’s barely past nine in the morning. I got in ten minutes ago. I need coffee. Lots of coffee.

I already told McGraw, Laird says and gives me this smirk. But don’t worry. I didn’t tell him how much. What was it? Ten, fifteen thousand? More? I’ll leave it to you to tell him that. I don’t want to make you look bad.

Another maddening smirk.

I don’t have anything to look bad about, I say.

I feel Laird watch me go. I keep walking down Leavenworth toward McGraw’s office and make like I’m buzzing the bell to be let in the door but I’m really looking out the corner of my eye at Laird. I have enough to do without worrying about him. Raymond supervises the shelter and drop-in center. Until recently, he answered to Don, my program coordinator, but Don got hired by the AIDS Foundation right before I was going to lay him off. If Don was still here this would be on him to fix. But he’s not here. So now I got to deal with Laird. And McGraw. Son of a bitch. You picked a good time to go, Don.

Laird crosses the street to a convenience store. This speed freak we all call Big Pete hits Laird up for money, but Laird shrugs him off. Laird’s not into speed freaks. He likes to make out like he helps the Martins of the world. They’re more sympathetic than speed freaks jonesing on the sidewalk. He likes to act high and mighty with speed freaks. Get all NA in their face.

As soon as Laird walks into the store, I hurry back to Fresh Start without coffee. Raymond’s sitting at his desk, back to the door, staring out a window at a boarded-up building, his Bible open on his lap. In the alley separating a vacant building from the shelter, pigeons fly past, flapping loudly in the dim light.

Laird knows, I tell Raymond.

Raymond ignores me, reads aloud from the Bible: The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The Lord is the stronghold of my life; of whom shall I be afraid? Though an army encamp against me, my heart shall not fear; though war rise up against me, yet I will be confident.

Put the Bible up, Raymond. Laird knows your buddy walked with Martin’s money.

Raymond raises his head and without turning around says, Laird was just up here.

What did he say?

That Martin told him I lost his money.

And what did you say?

I told him what happened.

Why?

It was the truth, Raymond says.

I watch a pigeon strutting back and forth on the ledge of a broken window puffing its chest at another pigeon.

The truth? Jesus, Raymond, fuck the truth. We’re talking about our jobs here.

Goddamn Laird. He’s one of these formerly homeless guys who get off the street, rent a room somewhere, and spend all their time around places like Fresh Start pretending to help other homeless guys when really, they’re just living off Social Security and doing nothing more than what they did when they were homeless: hanging out on the street.

Laird said that before he was homeless, he used to be a manager for an AT&T office in the Financial District until his marriage went south and he went all to hell. I don’t know. The guy can’t spell worth a lick, and his teeth are as crooked as a boxer’s nose. Small, red, blotchy mushroom clouds dot his face like something exploded beneath his skin. The result of a childhood allergy, he tells anyone who asks.