As we settled at the table, I began to share the story about the homeless artist we had just passed.
“So, there’s this guy I see every day, painting on the corner,” I started, glancing at Sam and the others. “He’s got real talent, but no one ever buys his work. I gave him some money today.”
“Gave him money, huh?” Sam said, his tone laced with sarcasm.
“Yeah,” I replied, shrugging. “Figured it might help him out, you know? What are you getting at, Sam?”
He paused, letting the question hang in the air before answering.
“It’s easy to throw a few bucks into a hat, Ethan. Anyone can do that. But real action? Invite that homeless guy to stay with you for a week. Let’s see how generous you really are.”
It wasn’t just a casual comment—Sam was challenging me, and I could feel Linda tense up beside me.
She looked at me, her eyes wide with disbelief, silently begging me to refuse. But I couldn’t back out now, not with Sam watching, that smirk still plastered on his face.
“Fine. I’ll do it.”
