I woke up the next morning more apprehensive than I'd been the night before.
I boarded my usual bus and went into town. In the crowds, the bag proved to be a colossal encumbrance. It seemed to add about two feet to my normal body width; made it difficult to maneuver, difficult to just forget about it.
I got off the bus, started walking, reached the corner across the street from Moses' doorway.
It occurred to me that maybe I was too late. Last night had been even colder than the night before. Maybe I would find myself dumbly presenting a raincoat to a frozen corpse.
I looked across the street.
Moses was still there. On his feet. Alive.
My relief lasted only a moment.
He noticed me looking at him—the way that people always notice when they're being looked at.
The light changed, and I crossed the street in his direction. As I reached him, I trotted out my prepared speech. I said, "Excuse me, but it's pretty cold. You could use a coat. Would you take this?" I held the bag out toward him.