Hanging off his left shoulder, his backpack looked heavier than it should be. Most of his life was tucked into the various pockets, including a cell phone and three rechargeable batteries. He was not used to being around people, having lived in the shadows and hillsides of civilized society. Talking was brutal, especially after not having human interaction for more than six months. The doctors told him the medications kept him alive, but he sincerely doubted that. It’d been six months since his last two injections, one an antipsychotic and the other a mood stabilizer. He was doing fine, even though he did have that outburst with the raccoon near the lake. Thankfully, the lake water wasn’t all that cold, and it helped keep him clean.

Brent was grateful that it was summertime and the locals hadn’t quite put in for their vacations. At least not yet. But when they did, the lake was packed! Boats. Kids. Families. Barbeques. Parties of all kinds, on the water and on the shore. The three resorts remained full throughout the summer – after mid-June. Not that the kids, families, or parties bothered him. He’d blend in with all the guests, and more often than not, they thought he was a guest of one person or another. Brent blended in with the crowd as long as he and his clothes were clean.

Unlike other homeless people, Brent made a point of caring for his personal belongings and his clothing. Panhandling was nothing new, and he knew exactly how to get as much as he needed without being dishonest. Those people who brought him food? He graciously accepted it, giving it to homeless people like him when he wasn’t hungry. In return, others in the homeless community would do favors for Brent, like bringing him coffee in the morning or finding the toiletries he needed. Toothpaste and a toothbrush were two items Brent simply wouldn’t allow himself to be without. His ex-wife was a dental hygienist, which meant she either scheduled his regular checkups and cleanings or did it herself at home. Tawny took good care of him, and he missed her. Their divorce was finalized years ago, shortly before she was diagnosed with cancer. Unfortunately, the cancer hit her with the vengeance of an ex-boyfriend and took her life less than three weeks after the divorce.

Brent walked out on his employer without so much as a word. As a financial planner and advisor, it was implausible that someone of his professional stature would walk out on such a lucrative career. Then again, Brent’s trauma and mental illness would allow him to make impulsive, rash decisions. His decisions were often logic-based, thinking through every action before making one move. He lived like a chess game, each movement precise and articulated. The only time his calculations didn’t work was when the emotional stuff overwhelmed him. Then, all logic went out the window. Most of the time, living on the streets, he was great and never got in trouble; he complied with city statutes and ordinances, even interacting with law enforcement peaceably, proving to them that he was just fine, even if he was homeless.

It wasn’t unusual for him to stay awake for a few days because homeless outsiders like to steal anything not nailed down. And there was an unwritten communal law of homeless camps: to treat everyone and everything like it was yours. You wouldn’t steal your stuff, so why would you steal someone else’s belongings? The problem was outsiders didn’t live by this code and were mistreated by other communities. So, they relied on their wits, including stealing from others in their position. Brent learned to keep his eyes on his stuff or tie it to him so no one could take it, and for the most part, it worked. Brent lost items every so often that either wasn’t tied to him or secured in his secret stash spot. But the important stuff, like soap, deodorant, and toothpaste, could easily be replaced.

His sunglasses were free of smudges and scratches. Brent’s hair was slicked back and combed neatly. He carried his coffee in his right hand, his left holding the backpack strap. If you were to meet Brent on the street, he wouldn’t strike you as unusual. You would think he was a college student, a non-trad at that. Or he was a creative business professional, carrying his work wherever. Brent drank on rare occasions, didn’t smoke, and the only drugs he actively used up until six months ago were prescribed and administered to him in the doctor’s office.

Wearing Bentley Platinum sunglasses, a young woman passed him on the street. “Good morning,” he said as he passed. She smiled politely at him, slightly tipping her sunglasses down. He didn’t recognize her. Not at first. “Brent? Is that you? Oh my goodness! I haven’t seen you in ages. What are you doing these days?” It slowly started to occur to him that she was a former client of his, Sandy Konesberg. He wasn’t sure why she hired him as a financial advisor in the first place. She had plenty of money, lots of stocks and bonds, and a secure portfolio that was barely taxable. Daddy and Mommy took good care of their princess. Even though that princess was almost forty-two. She took her sunglasses off and hugged him. It’s been a while since anyone touched him, much less an attractive woman. He tried not to grimace, but he wasn’t sure it worked. She hooked his arm in hers and walked him down the sidewalk with her. “So, you took good care of me,” she put her sunglasses back on, snuggling his shoulder, “and my finances. We should work together again. Where are you working these days?”

“I’m in between jobs at the moment,” Brent lied. The truth was he hadn’t worked for anyone in months and, to be honest, didn’t want to. If Brent really wanted money, there were multiple accounts in his name with thousands. He opted not to spend any of it. It didn’t seem right when his ‘friends’ struggled to survive. “Sandy, you have more than enough money. Why invest more of it? You couldn’t possibly spend it all before you die, even if you tried.” And when he worked for her? She had tried! Her business acumen was better than most wealthy investors. Sandy made smarter choices than her Mother or Father, which, as you can imagine, upset them terribly. They wanted their daughter to be successful, to be sure, but outclass them? Before they died? That wasn’t something that sat well with either parent.

They continued walking down the street back to the coffee shop where Brent bought his coffee. “Brent, sweetie. Come have lunch with me.”

“Right now? It’s 10:45. It’s a bit early for lunch, isn’t it?”

“Nonsense. We can talk like old times. Catch up. All that jazz.” She stopped midstep, throwing him a bit off-balance. “Wait. Didn’t Cassie die a few months ago? I thought I read her obituary not long ago.”

                “Yes. Cancer got her,” he said. Not even a hint of emotion rang in his tone. “Not that it mattered. We were divorced before she died.”

                “You mean?”

                “Yeah. Cassie was single when she passed.” Cassie was trying to date a few different people, according to Brent’s family. Brent’s sister, Tish, saw her with a few people singing karaoke on a Thursday. Tish didn’t recognize them, but a younger woman was all over Cassie, kissing and hugging her. And it looked like Cassie was enjoying the attention.

                “So she didn’t get any of your,” she rubbed her forefinger, thumb, and middle fingers together. The universal symbol for cash.

                “No. Not a dime.” He sipped his coffee. “But I paid for all the arrangements, including the cemetery plot. Her family couldn’t afford it.” Brent didn’t tell her that her family didn’t ask him to pay for it; he just did it, making a check to the funeral home with a note reading, ‘anonymous donation.’

                “Are you still living at the lake house? I seem to remember what a lovely property you had.”

He shrugged. “Yeah. It was a really nice place.”

Sandy’s mouth hung open. “Nice place? You had the nicest place on the lake.”

He smiled. “That was a long time ago.”