Shuffling into the Rhodes Convenience store on independence street, holes in his shoes, weathered skin, and a heavy coat, I swore he had nowhere to go. His backpack looked full, possibly carrying every single possession. His head hung low. Embarrassed? Depressed? I didn’t know. And I didn’t bother to ask.

The cooler in back was fully stocked with the cheapest alcoholic beverages near the bottom, making it difficult to reach, harder to steal. Me? I was more concerned about my coffee and Little Debbie’s snack cakes. Something I could get and forget about the cost.

He got in line, one woman behind him dressed in a flashy business suit, Dior purse, and heels. Her nose crinkled, eyes rolled as we watched him pull out several crumpled bills to buy his Icehouse beer and a generic pack of cigarettes.

From where I stood I could smell him. It wasn’t terrible, just human. Laundry isn’t the highest priority. Neither is a shower.

He was bumbling, doing his best to flatten the bills and pay for the two items. The line behind me was growing, the woman in front of me growing more impatient with each passing second.

Collecting his money, the cashier stuffed the crumpled bills into the register, giving him a disgusted look.

The smell lingered at the register while he shuffled out, and the woman with the Dior bag held her nose, paying for her gasoline in cash, picking out the same generic pack of cigarettes he just bought.

Her heels clicked out the door.

Then I paid, walking out past him as he opened the pack and lit a smoke.

Here’s where I had a choice. I could have said hello, taken a second to acknowledge he was there.

But I didn’t. I picked the easy way out, walking back to the Lexus. Starting the engine, I pulled out of the lot watching a police officer pull into the spot next to me.

I told myself all kinds of stories heading to work. It’s none of my business. He’s a grown man, making his own choices. You can’t save everybody.

All true.

All convenient.

The thing is, I wasn’t supposed to save him, just see him. Acknowledge his existence. Remember, he’s a child of God, too, just like me.

That’s it. That’s the whole assignment.

A nod. Eye contact. Maybe “how’s your day going” like I’d say to anyone else inside Rhodes. The same small dignity I give a businessman buying gum or a mom wrangling four kids and a grocery cart.

I didn’t do any of it.

And now?

I don’t know his name.

Probably never will see him again.