“Why do you do it?” she said at last. “Do what?” “Take in strays. This guy. Lottie. Randall.” She sniffed. “Me.” For a while he didn’t answer. Then he sighed and shrugged. When he spoke, his voice was on the verge of cracking, as if years of pent-up emotion were bubbling out and he was fighting to stop the imminent eruption. “The street,” he said, “is a horrible place to die.”
