 A memory. I walk past the screaming woman, her hair unkempt. She calls me names, her clothes filthy. I take my worried daughter's hand, and like good New Yorkers, we clip along eyes forward, down the stairs to the subway where my metro card reads, insufficient balance. I take a breath, and we climb back to the street, making our way down two blocks to reload the car. But the man stops me, offers to pay the fare. I eye him, untrusting of this kindness as we clump back down the cement steps. It's two rides, I say, five dollars. He says, I saw you with your girl, his eyes glanced at my daughter. I saw you when the homeless woman screamed in your face. I heard you, I heard you tell your girl it's alright. This woman is unwell and needs help we can't give today. I heard you, I saw you treat that crazy woman like she's human. I saw you teach your child to respect everyone. I will pay for your rides. This memory continues to live in me, it's changed me. I walk with eyes open, I'm ready to pay for your ride.