Why are you doing this?”
“We’ll get to that.”
I held the card out again.
This time he accepted it carefully, gripping only one corner.
The printed details seemed to make the offer real in a way my words had not.
He read the card twice.
Then the small amount of hope that had appeared in his expression disappeared.
“The other side of town?”
“Yes.”
“I can’t get there.”
“You have a car.”
“I don’t have enough gas.”
The admission came so quietly that I almost did not hear it.
He stared at the card rather than at me.
“I’ve been using whatever is left only when I absolutely have to.
Applications.
The employment office.
The pharmacy.”
“I figured.”
I picked up the envelope and held it toward him.
He looked at it but kept both hands at his sides.
“What’s in there?”
“Forty euros.”
His expression changed.
It was not gratitude.
Not yet.
First came humiliation, sharp and immediate.
Then anger at himself for needing the money.
Beneath both was exhaustion.
“I said no charity.”
“And I said this isn’t charity.”
“What do you call giving money to someone who can’t pay you?”
“A practical solution.”
He gave one short laugh without humor.
“You make it sound simple.”
“Gas usually is.”
He pressed his lips together.
I placed the envelope on top of the business card in his hand.
“You’ll pay it back after your first paycheck,” I said.
“Not before.”
He still did not close his fingers around it.
“And the rent?”
“We’ll talk about the rent when you are working again.”
“I’ll be another month behind.”
“Possibly.”
“You’re just going to let that happen?”
“I’m going to let you attend a job interview with food in your stomach and enough gas in your car.”
The trembling in his hand became more visible.
He lowered the card and envelope to his side.
“I started parking farther down the street,” he said.
“I know.”
“No, you guessed.”
“That was enough.”
He glanced toward the small basement window.
From where we stood, it showed only the lower half of the street and the tires of passing cars.
“I waited until it was dark before coming inside,” he continued.
