The Sandwich
“Sir?”
I turned.
A young man stood there, sleeves rolled, tie loosened, eyes tired but kind. His name tag read Lewis — Junior Administrator.
“Come with me,” he said softly. “You look like you could use a meal.”
“I don’t have any money, son,” I muttered.
He smiled — the kind of smile you don’t see much anymore. “That’s all right. You don’t need money for respect.”
He led me past the staring faces into the staff lounge. The air smelled of coffee and microwaved lunches. He poured me a cup with shaky hands and placed a sandwich in front of me.
“You remind me of my dad,” he said. “Vietnam vet. Tough man. He… passed last year. He had that same look — like he’d seen more of life than he ever wanted.”
He hesitated, voice breaking just a little.
“I don’t know what brought you here, sir, but you matter. Don’t let anyone here make you forget that.”
I stared at the sandwich. My throat tightened. For a moment, I almost told him the truth — that I was the man whose name was stamped on every paycheck in that building.
But I didn’t. Not yet.
