Every day he stands at the freeway entrance, squinting into the sun, back bent slightly, shoes worn through long ago. His sign reads, “Homeless vet, anything helps. God bless.”

The gleaming string of cars stretches up and runs to the horizon. The fumes of their idling engines choke him. Behind him, cars scream by, rushing to slow down as they catch traffic.

At his side is all that he owns: a coat, an upturned hat, a blanket, and a pack of smokes. He shifts from his left leg to his right, stiff and sore from another night on the concrete.

A window rolls down, an arm reaches, hand closed, palm down. He shuffles to the hand, cups both of his underneath, and receives his prize.

Cracked lips manage a smile. “God bless.” Barely a nod, he hears the words good luck as the Toyota speeds off.

He glances at the treasure in his leathery hands, a single quarter, and flips it into the hat as he positions the sign.