The first time I saw him, he was outside the 24-hour laundromat, curled on a ripped camping mat.
A small orange cat with half an ear lay across his chest, breathing in sync with him.
His shoes were held together with duct tape, and his “backpack” was just a tied black trash bag.
I didn’t know their names then, but I began bringing them food from the café where I worked nights.
He never asked for anything, always thanked me, and always fed the cat first.
One night, I asked her name. He looked at her and said softly, “Hazel. She chose me.”
