The first time I saw him was outside the 24-hour laundromat, tucked into the corner where the flickering neon sign cast a pale pink glow over the cracked sidewalk.
He was lying on a ripped camping mat, curled up like he’d finally found a position that didn’t hurt. Across his chest was a cat — small, orange, missing half an ear — stretched out like she’d claimed him as her own. The rise and fall of her breathing matched his, as if they’d been doing this for years.

Continues…