More Than the Wound
His naked, dirt-caked foot draws closer, each step accompanied by strained, raspy breathing. He’s missing a shoe, and his ragged clothes offer little to no protection from the elements. His face is gaunt and hollow, his cheeks hardened by the passage of years.
His eyes appear drawn to our black van, painted with bold red lettering: Chi-Care, Serving Humanity on Our Streets. Onboard the van, among other volunteers, I watch him approaching.
The rat-infested underpass the van is parked in reeks of mold and rot and is littered with makeshift tents. As he comes closer, his eyes remain downcast.
“Water,” he croaks.
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