They call him "Saint Francis." He does not care if it is in praise or scornful. He will give them whatever money he has, he will give them his shirt, his shoes. He often stumbles for he is often drunk, but somehow his drunkenness sharpens their bruised arms, their dirty faces, their matted hair, their ragged hems. He does not care about saving them the way the others do, he just can't stand to look in their eyes and see what is there, or what isn't there.
He does not want to see them, because to feel pity is deadly.
When the scrawny girl sidles up to him, he at first does not notice her because she is like all the rest. She begins to tug up what he assumes was once a skirt. "Sir, sir," she says as she presses herself against him. She pats her grimy hair and smiles a gap-toothed smile.
"I have nothing. I have given it all away."
"Surely you have something." He makes the mistake of meeting her eyes. He shudders and shoves her, hard. She hits the wall with a crack, but he doesn't hear as he is already running, shoeless, shirtless. Ridiculous.