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There is a man who lives outside the Auto Parts Store. When the parking lot has emptied by closing time, he is easy to spot. He leans against a brick wall in his worn, denim jacket that has missing buttons; he never closes it or tries to because his stomach protrudes unnaturally from beneath his t-shirt. He seems impregnated and lost. He carries his tennis shoes over one shoulder and watches people at the Popeyes across the intersection get into their cars, chatting over the smell of fried chicken and exhaust. And he wonders if they know how easy it is to slip for just a second, to make a mistake, to end up wearing an overcoat in August because everything you cannot take with you or wear on your back must be discarded in the streets. And everything must be used because you are a nomad. You are the waste of the world, a percentage, a statistic. People lock their doors at the sight of you and drive through yellow lights with eyes hollow, looking ahead and pretending not to notice.