Elba stays the night and we sleep with our arms and legs wrapped around each other, her cheek pressing softly into my chest. When she wakes up she takes the film out of the Hasselblad so she can develop it in the dark room at school. I saw one of the photos in a local vintage-inspired fashion magazine and I think she must have sold it to them because around the same time she’d brought me a massive floral arrangement and a stuffed elephant with a balloon tied around its eyeless head. I hear her turn on the shower and I stay in bed, still mostly asleep, and before she leaves she crawls onto the covers, hugging me through the sheets. We kiss goodbye.

You know, Matilda, I hate tofu. I begin to stare at him incredulously but then decide I’d rather not. He still has remnants of last week’s fermented soy meal in his beard. Except for his eyes, which were unmistakable, it was hard to make his face out behind that beard, hard to imagine what he would look like cleaned up and off the streets.

I know they say that beggars can’t be choosers—he chortles here—but too much of that stuff can give you breast cancer. Men too.

You know, you seem awfully educated for a bum, I say.

He chuckles. You seem awfully educated for a construction worker.

I’d think that you of all people would know how messed up the economy is these days.

You got a family?

Hopefully I will soon.

Look after ‘em, son.

I grunt and move to leave when he asks me if I’ll do a favor for him, save the old guy some time.

Depends, I say. If it’s too hard I might have to levy a fee.

Fat chance, kiddo. He clears his throat. I have a friend who lives near your place. Elm Street. Maybe you’ve seen him. He usually has one of those toy dogs with him, mangy little sucker.