The fog rolls in the first sunrise dawn, bathing the world in misty silence. I meet Jesus, he’s sleeping on a bench at creekside, his head pillowed by a backpack and an old blanket wrapped around his form. He wakes and tells me it’s his own damn fault. I nod in silent agreement, it’s always my fault too. I empty my wallet and give him money. For coffee, for food, to feed an addiction. Whatever he needs to get through the day. We pass words back and forth between us like a flask of rare whisky. Jesus needs a bath and a hot meal. Jesus needs a friendly voice and finds one dressed in studs and ripped jeans and wearing compassion like a shroud. Jesus looks worn and faded and deep into a meth bender. He may need more but we settle on this; a few spoken words and the cold comfort of empathy. I walk on now, touched by his plight, and Jesus fades into the distance behind me.