The guy spun circles mid-street. Drivers veered; people yelled—all assuming him post-bender. But his face told otherwise—tufts of white hair askew, eyes panic-wide and rheumy. We pulled over and joined him on the center line.
“What’s up, sir?”
“I need to get downtown!” he panted. “I need my social security check.”
“Let’s get there on the sidewalk,” we comforted. “Or better, in our car.” From the back seat, his odor wafted frontward.
At the social security office, the desk clerk recognized him. “Lou, do your people know you’re here?” Lou hunched small. We all waited for our uncertain future.