Sample Ch. 5
He walked into the room, his identity tucked under a cap that was both beaten and bruised. His hand gripped a worn backpack hanging beside him, bumping his knee with each stride.
His jeans were torn. His face drawn taut. He made eye contact with no one.
His faded shirt appeared to have been tucked in but only part of that job still remained. He wore no belt, although it looked like he could have used one.
His shoes had been scuffed (while fleeing from the cops, perhaps? Or climbing the trash bin to rummage for food? Who knows.)
I don’t think anyone had ever introduced him to a razor, either. The hair hiding his chin had most likely been cut or trimmed with scissors.
Was he hungry? Did he need food? Soap? I wanted to help him.
But he frightened me.
Granted, this was only a few months after the World Trade Center tragedy on 9/11. The post-terrorism trauma still gripped many of us in a state of suspicious fear.
