"Here. Drink slowly."
His hands shook so badly that he struggled to hold the cup.
Lashonda steadied it and helped guide it toward him.
He took a sip.
Then another.
Slowly, some color returned to his face.
"Thank you," he said. His voice was weak. "I seem to have gotten turned around."
"Where are you trying to go?"
He looked at her blankly.
"I'm not entirely sure. I was walking, and then..."
He stopped.
His brow furrowed.
"I can't quite remember."
Lashonda pulled out her phone.
"Do you have somebody I can call?"
The man patted his pockets again.
"I don't have my phone. I don't..."
He stared at his hands as though they belonged to somebody else.
"I don't know where my wallet is."
Lashonda called 911.
After several rings, a dispatcher answered.
"911. What's your emergency?"
"I have an elderly man here who seems disoriented. He's been outside in the storm."
"Location?"
"Riverside Cafe, Market and Ninth."
Lashonda heard typing.
"Ma'am, we're experiencing extremely high call volume because of the weather. Units are responding to emergencies throughout the area. Current estimated wait could be close to two hours."
"Two hours?"
"Keep him inside and warm. We'll send somebody as soon as possible."
The call ended.
Lashonda called the closest shelter.
Full.
Then another.
Also full.
She looked toward the man.
He was warming up, but still appeared fragile and confused.
For the first time, Lashonda noticed details she had missed before.
The watch on his wrist looked expensive. Swiss-made, perhaps, with a leather strap softened by years of use. On his right hand was a signet ring with an intricate crest.
Even the thin cardigan seemed expensive.
Cashmere.
This was probably a man with money.
A man with a home somewhere nearby.
But right now, none of that mattered.
Right now, he was an elderly man with no coat, no phone, no wallet, and no idea how to get home.
"Do you know where you live?" Lashonda asked gently.
He closed his eyes and concentrated.
"East, I think. A few blocks east."
Lashonda knew what neighborhood lay east of Market Street.
Brownstones.
Iron gates.
Old wealth.
On a clear day, it was not far.
Tonight, it might as well have been another city.
Her phone buzzed.
11:14.
The last bus was leaving in 16 minutes.
Lashonda looked toward the staff closet.
Her mother's burgundy coat hung inside.
Then she looked back at the man.
What she did next violated almost every rule of self-preservation she had learned.
But there were things she believed mattered more than survival.
Lashonda walked into the kitchen.
She found crackers and a packet of instant chicken-noodle soup.
She heated water and brought both to the table.
The man wrapped his hands gratefully around the bowl.
"What's your name?" Lashonda asked.
"Arthur."
He said it slowly.
As though verifying it for himself.
"I'm Lashonda. Lashonda Hayes."
"Miss Hayes."
Arthur met her eyes.
Even through the confusion, something dignified remained in his expression.
"I won't forget this."
Lashonda gave a small smile.
"You don't have to remember anything. Just get warm."