For Two Decades, He Scavenged for Me

The new homeless man was always staring at me. He was filthy, and I always tried to avoid him. But every day, he’d give me the weather forecast. On my birthday, he bought me a Happy Meal. He wasn’t a bad guy. I started helping him collect cans and bottles. The little money he made, he spent at a print shop. Curious, I followed him one day. He was printing missing person flyers. “If my Lulu were alive,” he said, his voice thick with sorrow, “she’d be about your age.” His daughter had been abducted by traffickers when she was three years old.

1 On my way home from work, a man in ragged clothes suddenly stepped in front of me. “Miss, could you tell me how to get to the Serenity Apartments?” He looked about fifty, but the lines etched on his face made him seem closer to seventy. His temples were completely white, and his eyes, though weary, were startlingly bright. It was strange. He looked every bit the part of a homeless man, but I wasn’t afraid. The place he was asking for was my apartment complex. I pointed him in the right direction. “Turn right at the intersection. You can’t miss it.” He grinned, a wide, genuine smile. “Thank you, miss. You’re a kind soul.” He walked faster than I did and reached the complex first. But he didn’t seem to know which apartment he was looking for. He just stood downstairs, staring blankly at the scattered lights in the windows. Winter arrived quickly. The days grew colder, the wind biting, but the old man stayed. He had made a home for himself in a small corner next to the garbage collection area, surviving by collecting recyclables. His daily meal was a bowl of the cheapest broth and noodles he could find. But he wasn’t lazy. He was often out late, returning long after dark. I never knew what he was so busy with. Our paths crossed so often that we slowly became familiar. If we met in the morning, he would remind me— “It’s getting cold. Wear an extra layer so you don’t catch a chill.” “It’s going to rain tomorrow. Don’t forget your umbrella.” I just thought he was a kind, chatty person. I’d always thank him as I passed. One day, he was carrying a huge armful of recyclables. The ground was slick, and he slipped, the bottles and cardboard scattering everywhere. I rushed over to help him up. “Are you okay?” He shook his head and immediately bent down to search for something among the debris. After a moment of frantic searching, the deep furrows in his brow finally smoothed out. I followed his gaze. He was carefully cradling a small rattle drum. It was old and plain, the kind you could find anywhere. The drum’s surface and handle were worn smooth by time. He wiped it clean with a gentle hand. I couldn’t help but ask, “Is that very precious to you?” He nodded. “This was Lulu’s favorite toy when she was little.” “Who’s Lulu?” “My daughter.” “Oh,” I said, my mind racing. How could a man with a child end up like this? As if sensing my question, he sighed. “Lulu was taken by traffickers when she was three.” I froze, the words not registering for a long moment. “I’ve been looking for her for over twenty years. Found nothing.” “I’ve been to every corner of this country. This is the last state I haven’t searched.” I asked dumbly, “So, all that work you do during the day is for…” “Yes,” he said. “To find Lulu.” In my confusion, I blurted out without thinking, “Doesn’t it cost a lot of money to look for a child? Can you really manage… doing this?” He understood my meaning and gave a bitter smile. “I had a job at first… but I was so desperate to find her…” “This is better, anyway. If I just sit in a room, the anxiety eats me alive.” “If I can’t find her, I’m always terrified that she’s suffering.” He seemed to be lost in a painful memory, his rough hand stroking the broken rattle drum over and over.

2 At lunch, I was eating on a bench in the hospital corridor. I glanced up and saw my parents again. They were standing outside the obstetrics department, listening intently to what a doctor was saying. They were nearly fifty, but they were still obsessed with having another child. I had asked them once, “You’ve been trying for ten years without success. Why keep pushing yourselves?” My parents’ faces were etched with a quiet sadness. “We just want to leave you with a brother or a sister.” But I didn’t need one. I had loving parents, a man I adored, and a promising career ahead of me. My life was full. I didn’t need anything else. I tossed my lunch and went back to work. When I got home that evening, my parents were both there, a feast spread across the table. My mother saw me and waved happily. “Luna, come here.” I sat down. “Mom, what’s got you so happy?” My father brought the last dish to the table. “The best news! Your mother’s pregnant!” Clatter. My chopsticks fell from my hand, landing on my bowl. After a brief, heavy silence, they spoke with a hint of guilt. “We’re sorry, Luna. Your mother just really wanted another baby.” After a long moment, I nodded, my face a blank mask. “As long as you’re happy. Are there any risks?” My mother’s joy returned. “They said no! I feel great!” “That’s good,” I said, my voice flat. I used to have a sister. My father told me about her. She died of an illness when she was three. My mother fell into a deep depression, which only lifted when I was born. For over twenty years, I had been the pride of our family. An Ivy League graduate, a doctor at one of the top hospitals in the country. I was, by all accounts, a success. But my sister’s death had left a scar on their hearts, one that could only be healed by the arrival of a new child. The rest of the meal was quiet. I tried to make conversation. “How’s the charity work going?” “Everything’s going well,” my father replied. “The donations have been increasing,” my mother added. “We’ve been able to help several more families who have lost their only child.” Growing up, my parents were rarely around. They were always traveling for work. When I was young and didn’t understand, I accused them of not loving me. They would just smile sadly. It wasn’t until I was older that I understood they were doing something more important than making money—they were helping thousands of parents find their abducted children. My old complaints faded away, replaced by a quiet sense of pride.

3 A few nights later, the streetlights on my way home were out. The path ahead was pitch black, and I had to use my phone’s flashlight to see. As I reached the entrance to my complex, the old man was waiting anxiously. When he saw me, he hurried over. “Why are you so late tonight? Did you run into trouble?” His concern seemed a little excessive, but I didn’t think much of it. “The streetlights are broken,” I explained. After that night, there was another set of footsteps on my walk home. At first, it scared me, but when I saw the familiar shadow, I relaxed. It was the old man. He kept a polite distance, escorting me to the entrance of the complex before we went our separate ways. The next day, as I was making breakfast, I paused and added a little extra to the pan. I found the old man and handed him a carton of milk and a sandwich. He looked surprised and stammered for a moment. I was about to miss my bus, so I just pushed the food into his hands and ran off. The old man started meeting me on my way home from work with a fresh apple or a small basket of sweet strawberries. We seemed to have fallen into a comfortable, unspoken routine. I gave him breakfast; he gave me fruit and snacks. It was never much, just a few dollars’ worth of things, but I knew it was all he could afford. On my days off, I would sometimes help him carry his recyclables to the collection center. He’d count the few dozen dollars he made, putting half away and using the other half to buy me a roasted sweet potato. I felt bad taking it, but he would just smile and say, “Go on, eat it. Just pretend I’m buying it for Lulu.” His devotion to his daughter was so deep. I had no choice but to accept. “Thank you, sir.” I broke the sweet potato in two and handed him half. He hesitated for a second before taking it. The sweet potato that day was incredible. So sweet that it would hold a special place in my memory for the rest of my life, a marker of a happy moment. After we ate, he asked me where he could find a print shop. I looked it up on my phone and took him there. He handed the owner a battered, old flash drive. “Hello. I’d like to print something.” The owner gave him a disdainful look. “How many copies?” The old man pulled a handful of crumpled bills and loose change from his pocket—nickels, dimes, quarters, ones, fives, tens, twenties… a small mountain of money. “Whatever this will buy.” The owner plugged the drive into his computer and stared at the single image on the screen. He looked at the old man, then turned and called to a younger employee. “Come count this.” Half an hour later, the printing was done. Stacks of paper were piled high on the floor. Four bold words were printed on every sheet: “HAVE YOU SEEN ME?”

4 It took me a moment to find my voice. “Are you sure you can hand out all of these?” The old man smiled. “I’m sure.” I picked up one of the stacks. It was heavy. My eyes scanned the dozen or so remaining piles. I took out my phone to call a cab. “It’s fine,” the old man said. “I’ll just make a few trips. It’ll keep me warm.” The owner glanced between the two of us and finally said, “Just leave them here. Come get them whenever you need them.” The old man was filled with gratitude. “Good people are blessed with good fortune,” he said, bowing his head. When we left the shop, we each had a stack of flyers in our hands. “I could have done this myself, you know,” the old man said with a weary smile. “It’s good exercise,” I replied, smiling back. We spent the afternoon handing out the flyers. The old man bought me a bottle of water. I didn’t refuse. We sat on a curb, and I asked him, “Did you spend all your money on the printing?” He shook his head. “I saved a little. Put it on a card.” I watched the traffic go by. “Why don’t you spend some on yourself?” I asked softly. “Eat better, get some warmer clothes… a better place to stay.” “I’m all alone. It doesn’t matter where I live,” he said. “I’m saving it for Lulu.” I looked at his weathered face and felt a pang of sadness. “What if… what if you can’t find her?” His expression didn’t change. Perhaps he had cried all his tears long ago. “If I can’t find her, I’ll donate it.” I took a deep breath. “You won’t have to,” I said, trying to comfort him. “You said it yourself. Good people are blessed with good fortune.” After a moment, he pulled a notebook from his army-green coat. It was falling apart, the cover long gone. The edges were held together with layers of tape. He opened it. “Lulu was taken on her third birthday.” He pointed to a simple drawing on the first page. “She was always asking for a family portrait on the phone.” “I was busy with work, no time to go home. So I drew one for her.” “I was going to give it to her for her birthday…” The lines in the drawing were shaky, retraced several times to get them right. The following pages were filled with portraits of a little girl. The drawings became more skilled over time, but the girl’s features grew blurrier and blurrier. The old man’s gaze fell on the last drawing. “I’ve never seen Lulu grown up,” he whispered. “I can’t imagine what she looks like.” A lump formed in my throat. I didn’t dare speak. He turned another page, revealing years of calendars. In the early years, each day was filled with words. “Lulu, Daddy saw a girl today who looked just like you. Her eyes, her nose, her mouth… only her hands were different. If you were grown up, you would be even more beautiful.” “Today is my last day in Nevada. I’ve spent a year here and found no trace of you. Tomorrow, I’m going to Oregon. Will you be there?” Later, the entries grew shorter. “Searched all of Florida. No Lulu. Next stop, Georgia.” The following year, he had crossed out that entry in red ink and written a new one: “Lulu, Dad misses you.” I couldn’t bring myself to read any more. I covered my face, unable to speak. The old man’s sighs came one after another, heavy with sorrow.