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  • He didn't miss a beat, the man who dropped the papers. He was too far to call out and close enough that I could catch up with just a little effort. Did he notice? Did he care? Maybe he just wanted to discard of the pages without waiting to find a bin. Maybe it didn't matter.

    The things in my own pockets rotated with the coats that I wore but at any given point, they might include a slightly used napkin and slightly unused mittens, phone numbers and business cards, receipts, my phone and my iPod, Chapstick, a single key on a chain from the Bates Motel.

    Sometimes, I wrote notes to myself on any small bit of paper I could find and tucked that into my pocket, too, and more often than not, when I wore my rain jacket, I made sure I had a twenty in my pocket so I could find it again on another rainy day.

    I slowed my step near the papers he dropped. Looking down, I saw handwritten notes, numbers, a drawing.

    Taking a deep breath, I stooped to scoop them and started to run. Slowly.

    In half a block, maybe less, I caught up to the man and reached out a hand.

    "I'm sorry," I said. "I don't know if these are important."

    He looked at me wide eyed and uncomprehending.

    "You dropped them," I explained with a shrug. "It's frustrating to lose things."

    Recognition sparked in his eyes as he took the papers and told me, "You've restored my faith in humanity."
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