I fixed on my crutches and slid off my wheelchair, about as graceful as a walrus, rainwater squelching under the rubber ends. You moved to help me, but I waved you away. Folding my wheelchair, I pushed it toward you. "Can you carry that?"

You nodded and took it from me. I could walk on the crutched remainder of my legs, somewhat. It was a maladroit struggle, something between shuffling and stumbling, and I was embarrassed by it. I tried not to worry about what you thought of me, or how much you pitied me, as I collected my sparse belongings. I didn't have much to my name – just a quilt that you'd given me last year, a woven mat, a couple jackets, and a backpack with other odds and ends. Everything was soaked; that embarrassed me furthermore.

Don't fucking think about it! Don't fucking think about it! I chanted in my head.

By the time I heaped my things in my arms, you had already taken my wheelchair to the road and unfolded it. You returned, picked up your umbrella, then emptied my arms before I could protest. I decided to let you carry the things. After all, I did need my hands to go up the stairs.

Gripping the railing, I heaved my weight along and wobbled onto the first step. Slowly, I scaled another step. And another. I'd done this before. Every single day. Although, I hadn't done it while being pummeled by a wrathful storm. I could barely make out your silhouette on the road, your patience undying in the downpour. My hands struggled to maintain their grip on the slick metal. There was acid in my lungs, my arms were afire. Just a couple more steps...

Wheezing like a deflating tire, I made it. You rolled the wheelchair closer to me; I slumped into it. "Let's go," you said, bouncing on your heels, "hurry!"

We made a mad dash for the front of the building. Dread froze my stomach when I saw another small flight of stairs that needed to be conquered to get into your apartment complex. I supposed if one wanted to cut construction costs, one started by cutting out ramps and other disability-friendly installations from their blueprints.

Rushing ahead, you fumbled with your keys for a minute, and finally got the main door open. You sped inside, the slap of your sneakers on the marble echoing in your wake. Meanwhile, I had gotten off my seat and was folding my transport so I could throw it up the stairs. Out of the blue, you were at my side again, snatching the wheelchair from me and flying to the porch to set it there. I followed, climbing these steps faster now that I was out of the rainfall and under the shade. When I reached the porch, I fell into the chair, heaving a lungful of air.

"We did it," I rasped as I detached the crutches and strapped them into their holder on the backrest of my chair.

Your eyes flicked to mine; you smiled your sunshine smile. "We did," you agreed, out of breath. "Come on, we gotta get warm and clean."

You led the way to the elevator. You'd already opened the grilles and put my things inside where they lay pitiably piled in the corner. I wheeled in, you pulled the grilles closed, and pressed the button labeled '3'. The ancient metal box steadily rattled to the third floor, and thereon, you went down the hallway. I went after you, my mind churning up the right words to express what I was feeling.

Once inside your flat, you faced me and waved your hands around at the space. "Here we are," you said, "make yourself at home."

Wheeling myself further, I took in the place. It suited you... it fit as your sanctuary – cozy, clean, all done up in harmonious colors, and multitudes of plants enlivening each nook and cranny. It was just like you, warm and safe and absolutely lovely. That you trusted me – a random, homeless man from around the corner – in your safe haven was a thought uplifting like no other.

"You can stand close to the radiator in the fireplace," you suggested, weaving around me to go and dial up the heat. Pivoting, you ushered me over. "Come here. And uh... sit tight. I'll run a you a hot bath. If you need help, like um... in the washroom, I can—"

"I've used a bathroom before, Solé," I cut in, only realizing that it came off as patronizing when your face fell.

Tone apologetic, you started, "I didn't mean—"

"I know," I said, interrupting you once more. "I know. And I didn't mean to sound rude either." Your lips parted, but then you sealed them, simply nodding instead. As you made for the passage that led into the house, I spoke. "Thank you. I can't tell you how thankful I am for what you're doing."

"Don't worry about it, Viktor," you told me, mellow and kind, yet oh boy, did I worry about it.

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