Running late for an appointment in Scranton, PA. Racing to beat time, I finally nab a metered parking spot. While fumbling for change, I hear shuffling steps approaching. A gravelly voice mutters something about a quarter and I stiffen, instinctively expecting to see someone proffering their hand for money. Instead, I find a small, shriveled old man in a ragged flannel shirt, peering through dirty glasses. His hand is extended toward me, and in it rests a quarter.
“Do you need a quarter?” he repeats. I fumble with a clumsy response, politely decline his offer and thank him, presumably for the quarter, but in truth, for restoring my faith in the possibility of angels. I study his wizened face, note his bright eyes and thank him again. If anyone could use a quarter, it would be him. He smiles, turns and continues on his way.