"I'M SICK OF IT!" 

He was screaming. 

"I! CAN'T! TAKE IT ANYMORE!" 

He was homeless, young-er, sobbing.

He was sitting along The Mag Mile, an expensive shopping district in Chicago. He was leaned up against the side of a Topshop, his clothes in stark contrast to the high-fashion window display above him.  

He wasn't well. His hands were peppered in sores. His legs were bandaged. The red was seeping through. 

He was holding a cardboard sign: 

“I'M EVAN. PLEASE HELP!” He had nice handwriting. 

"Hi, Evan," I said. 

He looked up. There was an abscess on his neck. His eyes were kind. 

"Hi," he said, wiping his cheeks. 

I gave him some money. 

"I'm sorry about all this," I said. 

"Thanks," he said. "But I deserve it."

"No," I said.

"Oh yes," he said. "Things could've been different."

"What do you mean?"

"I was a musician," he said. "I was in a marching band."

"What did you play?"

"Percussion.”

"What happened?" I said. 

(It just came out. I don’t know.)

He looked at me, bad. "Fuck you care, man?"

I backed up. "Sorry," I said, and turned around.

"I FUCKING QUIT!" he called out.

But I was already up the block.

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