"Will work for food." The words were neatly written in black magic marker on a jagged piece of brown cardboard. A filthy man about forty-five held the sign. He wore a pair of dirty, blood stained military fatigues; a green t-shirt, tattered and frayed; a military issue jacket whose patches needed patched; and combat boots, worn with holes, allowing his dirt and sweat stained socks to peek through. He huddled over a subway grate trying to keep warm. Holding his weather beaten sign, he hoped that someone would recognize that he was more than just a bum asking for a hand out.
David was nineteen when his number was called. A fresh faced kid, he worked at the grocery store and dated the girl next door. …
