The following happened exactly as described last Wednesday evening, on the West Side of Chicago.
After my 14-year-old daughter's soccer practice, she and I stopped at our neighborhood CVS, for a sack of ice and some tonic water.
On our way in, a homeless man sitting on the ground by the front door asked if we might do him a favor, and buy him a "Lunchable."
"No," I said gently, as I walked past. (You get used to turning panhandlers down gracefully when you live in the city.)
"Thank you," he replied without sarcasm. (They get used to it too.)
The moment we were inside: "Come on, Dad."
She promised to locate and pick out the Lunchable.
When we met at the check-out, she had two Lunchables. "Dad, they're so small!"
Outside, I reached down and handed the man the two Lunchables.
He shouted at the top of his lungs, "Holy fuck!"
And then added at the same volume, "There is a God!"
We laughed and told him good luck.
In the car on the way home my daughter marveled at how good it made her feel.
"We didn't solve the guy's problems," I reminded her.
"No, but he has something to eat tonight," she reminded me.