April 21, 2020:
Late twenties, sun-blasted skin, stubble, smells of beer. "May I ask you a question, sir? I won't be asking for money."
Me, curious: "Sure. What's up?"
Him, earnest: "What is it gives you hope."
My first instinct: burst out laughing. Such a large question, in such a confined little context.
Me, thinking: "Well, I think, friends."
Him, taken aback: "That's — that's a really good answer." Shakes hands, shakes his head, stumbles away, shaking.