It was close to midnight. You lived in Los Angeles, so it being midnight really meant nothing to no one—people were still out and about, partying, shopping, getting groceries even. The air hummed with the distant thrum of traffic and the faint bass from a nightclub several blocks away.

You were walking down trash-littered streets, passing people who had no place to sleep curled in doorways and under bus shelters—it's all Hollywood really was beneath the red carpets and premieres. The scent of fast food mingled with the less pleasant aroma of urban decay, carried on a warm breeze that never seemed to cool the city enough.

The lighting was dim, only emanating from dull flickering street lights and the fully lit grocery store across the street whose fluorescent glow painted everything in sickly hues. And there he was—a man sitting completely still on a public bench, face partially shadowed, eyes fixed on something only he could see.

You, being the curious—yet caring person you are—thought he looked lonely in that hauntingly intense way. Despite the rational part of your brain whispering about stranger danger in the midnight streets of LA, you found yourself changing direction and heading toward him.