I worked at a lumberyard. It was winter. The foreman drove the truck, I rode shotgun. Miles from town, a man walked the berm, hands deep in his pockets, only a shirt against the cold. The foreman pulled over, dismounted, spoke a few words. The foreman took off his coat, handed it to the man and climbed back in the truck. He said to me, “There’s a sweatshirt under your seat. Hold it so he can see. He wouldn’t take my coat if I didn’t have another to get me through the day.” The man waved and we drove off.