The subway platform was crowded with commuters rushing past the man sitting against the wall, his cardboard sign barely visible between hurried footsteps. I wouldn’t have noticed him at all if not for the faded anchor tattoo on his wrist – the same one I’d seen thirty years ago when he rescued a terrified little girl from a snowstorm.
“James?” I whispered, kneeling beside him. His eyes – still that same piercing blue – widened in recognition when I explained who I was. The man who’d carried me to safety, bought me hot chocolate with his last dollar, then disappeared was now the one needing rescue.
Over pizza, I learned how life had worn him down – job losses, broken relationships, and finally the streets. When he mentioned his failing heart, I insisted on helping. We planned a trip to the ocean he’d longed to see, but an emergency surgery delayed us. When I returned to his motel room, I found him gone, his face peaceful at last.
Now, whenever I walk past that subway station, I pause to help someone in need – because kindness, like James taught me, always comes full circle.
