He’s not asking for much, just a bit of water. I can let him drink a glass and send him on his way. I move to the kitchen and grab a glass, filling it from the tap. The water comes from a well-pump with a purification filter, and it’s cool and clean. I resist the urge to hoard it, remembering the days that I had to drink from puddles and runoff as a slave, but I have an entire well.
