The morning kept its gray coat on and would not take it off. I drove slow along the river. The water looked tired like a thin mirror someone had breathed on. A light rain started up. Not a storm. More like the sky remembered something sad and could not quite say it.

The call came from a motel with a peeling sign. I could hear the neon buzzing even before I pulled in. A single palm tree leaned over the parking lot like it had heard too many secrets. A man was waiting under the awning. Old but not fragile. Hat pulled low. Suit that had lost its color a long time ago. He held a small suitcase and a paper bag that smelled like oranges and tobacco.

Union Station he said. Voice flat. Not rude. Not friendly. Just a road sign.

He set the bag in the back seat and sat beside it like a guard. I eased the car out to the wet street. The rain drew thin lines across the windshield. The wipers pushed them away and they came back and back again.

You drive nights he asked.

Mostly I said.

He nodded like the word had a shape he recognized. Nights are honest he said. Daytime lies. Daytime dresses up. Night forgets to pretend.

We rolled past a tire shop with the gate half open. A kid inside swept the floor. The old man watched him the way a person watches their own memory. He unbuttoned his cuff and revealed a narrow wrist and a watch with a cracked face. I swear the hands moved slower than time.

You from here he asked.

No I said. New York.

He let out a small breath. New York he said. That used to sound like a door. Now it sounds like a wall.

The paper bag rustled. He took out an orange and turned it with careful fingers. Peel marks on his nails. He did not eat it. He just held it like a pocket sun. The cab filled with citrus and smoke. It mixed with wet street and old leather and made a smell that felt like a memory I could almost name.

You ever leave a place and still wake up there he asked.

Every week I said.

He laughed without making a sound. He set the orange back in the bag like he was returning it to a shrine.

We hit a stretch where the rain thickened. The road hissed. The world went soft around the edges. He leaned forward to watch the drops run. People say rain cleans things he said. I think rain remembers them. He touched the glass with one finger. Left a small oval print. Watched it fade.

We stopped at a red light near a church. A woman in a yellow coat stood under the eaves. She had a cardboard box pressed to her chest. The old man looked at her and then at his hands.

My wife loved yellow he said. Not bright yellow. The kind that looks like warm bread. We had a kitchen that color once. She said it made mornings kinder.

I wanted to ask where she was but the answer lived in his voice already. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and folded it again without using it. The light turned green.

Union Station I said. You meeting someone.

He shook his head. Saying goodbye.

I let that sit between us like another passenger. The freeway opened up. Cars passed like silver fish. The rain made a low drum across the roof. I could have fallen asleep to it if life were softer.

He tapped the watch crystal. It made a hollow sound. This was my father’s he said. He wore it to lay bricks. The face cracked when a wall slipped. He said keep it broken. It will tell you that time is not in charge. He smiled once and it surprised both of us.

We took the exit toward the station. He shifted the suitcase onto his knees. The handle had a dark polish from years of hands. The paper bag slid and I reached back at the stop to steady it. My fingers brushed his. His skin was dry like old paper.

Thank you he said. Then after a breath he added not just for the bag.

I pulled up under the wide arch where the buses cough and the pigeons pretend to own the place. The rain slowed to a mist. He did not move at first. He watched people pass. A couple with backpacks. A man with a guitar case wrapped in plastic. A child dragging a stuffed bear by the ear. He nodded at each of them like he knew their names once.

How much he asked.

I told him. He paid exact and then put another fifteen in the tray. For the rain he said. It does the real work.

He opened the door then paused. He took the orange back out and set it on the seat beside me. For whoever needs a small sun later he said.

He stepped out and the rain took him the way a soft curtain takes a shadow. He moved toward the clock tower with the suitcase swinging a little. At the turn he looked back. He raised two fingers. Not a wave. A small salute to a person who kept a window open. Then he was gone.

I sat there and felt the weight of the orange beside me. The skin had tiny pores like a thumbprint from the earth. I thought about taking a bite but I did not. I put it in the cup holder where it glowed weakly against the gray. The car smelled like a promise nobody wrote down.

The meter blinked and went to zero when I cleared the fare. The rain stopped deciding and became nothing. The street shone for a minute and then went dull. I drove out of the loop and let the station shrink in the mirror.

I took side streets back toward the river. The city stretched like a cat after sleep. People appeared. A man with a leaf blower. A woman with a bag of cans. A boy on a bike with no chain guard. Every face looked busy with its own weather.

At a corner a smoke shop had just opened its door. The first puff of incense crawled across the sidewalk. I rolled down the window and a breath of it came in. Sweet and cheap and stubborn. The orange smell stood up to it and the two fought until the air learned a new word.

I thought about the old man. About all the stations where people say goodbye. Platforms and porches and parking lots. I thought about my own platforms. The one where a woman I loved once said I was always almost there. She was right. I was almost a musician. Almost a husband. Almost at peace. Now I am almost rested between rides.

The dispatcher asked if I wanted a run to Boyle Heights. I said sure. The meter waited like a dog that had learned patience. I let the wheels carry me. The orange stayed in its little throne. A soft light in a plastic kingdom.

Clouds broke and the sun pushed through the edges. Buildings put on thin halos. The river looked less like a mirror and more like a path. I imagined the old man on a train already. Hat tilted down. Suit creasing into the seat. The suitcase above his head like a small history book. Maybe he opened the paper bag and found another orange. Maybe he just breathed in and let the smell tell him something kind.

I drove under a freeway and the light dimmed and then burst open again. A truck splashed old rain onto my door and the sound made me think of hands clapping once in a large empty room. I laughed. It felt good. It came out of me honest.

At the next light a sparrow landed on the hood and stared at me like I had the answer to a simple question. It flew away before the question reached my mouth.

The street climbed and dropped. Houses gave way to warehouses and then to a block of little shops painted brave colors. A barber stood in his doorway with a broom like a flag. He nodded. I nodded back. We had both opened for the day.

The call changed before I reached Boyle Heights. Pickup on a side street behind a bakery. I could almost taste the bread through the radio. I turned. The sun was up now for real. The city sighed and started its day of costumes and work and bottled up words.

I looked once more at the orange. I told myself I would save it for the first passenger who needed it. Somebody running. Somebody staying. Somebody who had to hold a small sun for a minute to remember the sky is still here.

The meter blinked. The road pulled me along. Smoke and rain faded to warm air. The cab smelled like stories that had decided to keep going.