© Sean N. Zelda “Are you hungry?” I asked the limping bearded man as he hobbled north on Division St. It was a chilly October Saturday morning in 2009. From twenty feet away, I could see two streaks of dried blood stretching from his nostrils down to his upper lip. His glassy eyes were filled with tears and he was hunched over, every grueling step a battle for his struggling legs. “I’m… starving…” he answered, his soft breathy voice dissipating into the bitter Ann Arbor air. I flicked my cigarette, jumped up from the couch on the porch and ran inside to find some food. I opened my cupboard to find two boxes of Pasta-Roni, an orange, some green tea bags, and a box of Club crackers. I grabbed the crackers and a bottle of water which I had stashed on top of the fridge and emerged from the front door to find that the man had approached the house. He was waiting for me on the brick walkway leading from the front door stairs to the small fence that lin