The beggar sat in the shade outside the 7-Eleven. He wore ragged jeans and worn-out sandals. His toenails were split, his skin caked with dirt and grime.
His shirt read Money. There was a ragged hole where the O had been.
I looked down, mumbled a prayer of thanks for my good fortune, and opened the door.
A group of teenagers wearing headphones and carrying skateboards shoved past me. Desperate for Red Bulls and candy, I guess.
I staggered then found my balance.
A finger tapped my shoulder. The beggar, holding my iPhone.
“Hey brother,” he said. “You dropped this.”