At first I think he wants money, then directions, until he staggers, almost tripping over the fire hydrant.

He carries jars of supplements labeled with warnings and radiation symbols. With every unsteady step he struggles to open the containers.

“Excuse me,” he says. “I was wondering if you would be kind enough to help me take my medicines. I can’t seem to get them open.”

He reeks from Caladryl lotion and moth balls, his eyes repelling from one another with the crazed phenomenon of nystagmus.

“Where did you get those pills?” I ask. Something isn’t right.

He shows me his cell phone.

© Richie Smith