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.