In the station

The panhandler at the bottom of the steps is greeted with shrugs and averted eyes when he asks, not begs, for help. "After a while you get immune to it," he says, louder now. "All you walkin and not seeing. You shaking your heads, goin on your ways."

By the time I come to face him, he's cut his losses. He points a ragged finger at each of us crossing his path. "Come judgement you won't be immune. No immunity in the eyes of god. I see you," he says. "You blind."