I took in a homeless man with a leg brace for one night because my son couldn’t stop staring at him in the cold. I left for work the next morning expecting him to be gone by evening.

“Let me inspect the building tomorrow,” he suggested quietly.

The simplicity of the proposal unsettled me. He wasn’t reacting to chaos.

He was analyzing structure.

Saturday morning, pale light filtered through thin curtains. I half expected him to disappear overnight, but at seven sharp he stood ready, brace secured, my battered toolbox open.

“I’ll leave when you ask,” he said. “Until then, I’ll stay useful.”

We walked to the building office behind the humming laundry machines. Mr. Pritchard looked up, already irritated.