That morning she walked the three blocks to the corner store, clutching her small purse against her chest. The sun was already hot, pressing down on cracked sidewalks and abandoned porches. A group of young men leaned against a chainlink fence, music thumping from a parked car. They nodded at her. She nodded back.

Respect goes both ways on streets like these. Inside the store, she moved with the careful precision of someone who'd stretched a dollar for 50 years. One loaf of bread, one small bag of dried beans. She counted exact change at the register, apologized for paying in coins, and stepped back into the heat. That's when she saw him.

A massive man slumped beside a damaged motorcycle near the curb. His body folded in on itself like something broken. Leather vest, skull patches, tattoos crawling up both arms like vines strangling tree bark. His face was pale, too pale, and sweat poured down his temples and rivers. People walked past him on purpose.

A woman with two children crossed to the other side of the street, pulling her kids closer, whispering something Loretta couldn't hear, but understood completely. An older man made eye contact with the biker, then looked away fast like he'd seen something dangerous. Fear has a language. Loretta had been fluent in it her whole life. But so did compassion.