The guy in the mall food court was hard to miss. It wasn’t just his threadbare clothes and duffel bag. It was the way he scanned the tables, more focused on the food than the people. When my wife, Michele, and I stood and picked up our trays, he came over. “If you’re not going to finish that sandwich, I’ll take it,” he
said.
“Sure,” I said, disturbed that a young guy—no more than 25—had to ask strangers for leftovers. Then something on his duffel caught my eye. A military ID patch. He was a homeless vet, back from combat with no...
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