I entered in my Advanced Creative Writing class’s contest this year, which was a 600 word story with the prompt “kindness in action.” Trying to find a way to keep a short story from becoming cliché and cheesy, I decided to pull from my memory of Union Station in Washington and write about a homeless man who spends his days under the arches outside the station. I won first place in my class and received a journal as a prize.

Trustin shifted his body weight to alleviate some of the stiff pain in his bottom from the concrete walkway. His tailbone wasn’t what it used to be, and sitting every day under the marble arches of Union Station wasn’t doing him any favors. His dimming eyes bleakly glazed over passersby who constantly loaded and unloaded the cherry double-decker tourist buses packed in the roundabout outside.

The Starbucks employees had all ducked out to perch on the station’s windowsills for a fifteen minute smoke. Office workers in blazers marched by with coffee in one hand and a phone in the other, and activists all billboarded their causes across their chests as they passed out fliers.

Buses spouted exhausts as the drivers released the breaks. Taxis honked. Passengers for the Amtrak jogged with rolling suitcases. A lady scammed unsuspecting tourists with her fake diabetes bracelet.

And in all of this, heat from the asphalt, exhaust, and burned rubber rolled in suffocating waves like breath from a giant dragon, causing the sidewalks in the direction of Mass Ave to shimmer mirage-like in Trustin’s faded eyes.

He was thankful for the shade the walkway outside the station gave him, but his stomach tugged impatiently, reminding him it was two in the afternoon and he still hadn’t found someone willing to spare him a few dollars. That was the trouble with people like the diabetes lady. The real homeless were often overlooked because everyone asking for food or money packed up their earnings at the end of the day and returned home for a good shower and a glass of wine they bought with a tourist’s money.

“Why are you sleeping on the ground?”

Trustin snapped out of his daydream and looked up to behold a pigtailed child wearing an oversized baby blue T-shirt. On its front was written in navy comic-sans “Fruits of the Spirit Daycare.”

Trustin rolled his shoulders once. “Because I can’t stretch out in the bathroom stalls.”

“Well where’s your house?” The girl’s voice peaked as she said house, and she looked around with wide arm gestures, as if she expected to see a more reasonable dwelling place on the street corner of Mass Ave.

“Don’t got one,” said Trustin.

“Well,” said the high little voice pragmatically, “do you have a mommy?”

“No.”

“Well then who’s gonna give you food when you need it?” To the girl, Trustin must have been the most illogical man she’d ever met. No house? No mother? Well, then!

Trustin was about to try explaining to the girl the woes of homelessness in a way he hoped she’d understand so she’d leave him alone, but the girl would have none of it. Instead, she plopped right down next to him and set her backpack between her legs. “Good thing I brought extra goldfish, then.”

Trustin stared as the girl began to unload her packed lunch. Goldfish, graham crackers, two bottles of water, and a jelly sandwich cut down the middle. She handed him half of the sandwich to start.

“Everyone else is eating in the food court,” she said around a large bite of jelly. Everyone likely meant the rest of Fruits of the Spirit Daycare. “But the statues inside scare me, so I decided to eat outside.” She glanced over at Trustin and seemed surprised that he’d already devoured his half of the sandwich.

“Wow, you sure eat fast.”

“Well, when you’re used to people not sharing, you eat as fast as you can,” said Trustin quietly. He found a smile break across his face. “Thanks, kid.”

“Welcome,” she grinned.