The next day, Max woke up still thinking about his strange benefactor from the day before. Who was he? He couldn't stop wondering. And will I ever see him again?
At the time, Max was convinced that his fascination with this man stemmed solely from the money. It had been so much. On a good day, he might receive a sandwich or a few extra pesos from someone who had seen him before or spoken with him regularly. But a week's salary? An entire week's salary, from someone who had never crossed paths with him in his life? That was unheard of.
It wouldn't be until later, much later, that Max would sort through his feelings and realize that there was something about the man himself that fascinated him. Something that he felt drawn to that would have been there even if money hadn't entered into the equation. Was it his kind eyes? His caring nature? His immaculate appearance and his mysterious business in the city?
No, Max reminded himself firmly. Just the money. Nothing more.
And so he began his solitary trek back to the city. He had been so bewildered by receiving such a large sum at once that he hadn't even had time to spend it yet. It sat now in the pocket of one of the shirts he wore beneath his ragged jacket; he hadn't dared to try and hide it somewhere in the slums for fear that someone even more desperate and hungry than he was would steal it.
I'll spend it on a nice meal tonight. He licked his lips and his stomach rumbled at the appetizing thought.
With something to look forward to for the first time in a long while, the journey to the city seemed quicker than normal. Max arrived at his usual stop and set up shop a little after eight in the morning. He coughed a little as a dry wind swept by him, mercifully much warmer than it had been the day before.
He unrolled his blanket and plopped down on top of it, watching the city come to life and wake up for the new morning. The shop owner had not yet arrived, but someone walked by and handed Max a few pesos anyway.
He shook his head in thanks. And then he coughed again.
Business was pretty steady that morning, perhaps even more so since people seemed to want to make up for whatever tasks they had left unattended yesterday. While the vast majority of passerby walked by Max without incident, several generous souls offered him smiles and donations.
He was pleased. The sun was starting to shine in earnest, its rays elevating Max to a purely optimistic mood.
He felt a slight tickle in his chest that he couldn't ignore, proceeded to cough again, and his good mood vanished in an instant. For a normal person, the thought of getting sick was a mere nuisance. For Max, it was terrifying. Already the situation of those living in the slums was so precarious that it didn't take much more than a common cold to wipe someone out. Or to spread to someone close to them. Someone they loved.
Max was both fortunate and unfortunate that he had lived by himself. If he got sick, truly sick, he would hopefully be able to quell the spread of his illness. But this also meant that, whatever he had, he would have to suffer through it alone.
As the day wore on, the tickle in his chest had given way to a painful, constricting sensation. Max found himself erupting into coughing fits several times an hour. He had hoped that, at the very least, people and their wallets would take pity on him and. In reality though, more and more people stayed away.
He swore under his breath, cursing himself for being too ambitious yesterday. Would today be another waste? He couldn't believe his poor luck. Receiving such a huge sum out of the blue the day before only to become too sick to appreciate it all now.
But his luck hadn't run out. Not just yet. After one particularly nasty coughing fit, he looked up and, with great pleasure, noticed an immaculately dressed man in the distance walking towards him with purpose.
Max rubbed his eyes, not daring to believe them yet, and squinted at the rapidly approaching stranger. He wore a crisp, off white business suit and held a secretive looking briefcase in his left hand. He seemed preoccupied, as if he were desperately in need of something. Yet he acted patiently kind all the same.
His eyes widened happily and he smiled as he saw Max. It sent a bolt of excitement through Max, though he couldn't immediately understand why. He offered a tentative smile of his own in return.
And then he coughed again.
The man raised his eyebrows.
"You're sick," he stated in concern.
It was the first time Max had ever heard him speak, and he found himself soothed by his voice. Smooth, melodic. As captivating as the man himself.
Max buried those feelings once more. Captivated? I'm hardly captivated. He scolded himself in confusion. Where did that come from?
He opened his mouth to thank the man, but his shyness got the best of him.
The man chuckled.
"What is your name?" he asked Max.
"Me? I – I'm Max," he croaked before erupting in coughs again.
The man shook his head again in pity.
"Well, Max, I hate that you are so ill. Please, have this," he placed a stack of money, at least twice as much as he had offered yesterday, into Max's reluctant palms.
"But, sir!" Max spluttered. For as poor as he was, he still had a sense of pride. He felt strange accepting such a large sum, even though he wanted it so desperately.
"Please," the man smiled. "Call me Gus."
"Gus," Max whispered quietly. "Gus. I cannot begin to thank you enough."
"The pleasure is all mine, believe me." Gus squinted and looked into the shop, once again preoccupied. "I have some…business to attend to in here. But I would love for you to join me for dinner tonight. You don't look well, and I would hate to you to have to face the elements alone and on the streets."
Max was too stunned to respond.
Gus winked paternally at him.
"Fantastic. I will see you in one hour."
And with that, he opened the door to the shop, leaving an incredibly confused and an even more grateful Max behind him.
