Two twenties

The wallet I find on the street has a bus pass, but no ID. No medicare card, no driver's license, no bank or credit cards. In the clear plastic sheath meant to house a picture, there's the little card with lines for your name, address, and phone number. It's blank. The place where you put your money has forty dollars, two twenties; that's almost enough to pay my living expenses this week. I pull the blank card out of it's sheath, and, flipping it, I see that those lines are filled in.

A man opens the door after I ring the buzzer. He looks me over, the guy standing in front of his door with one arm behind his back, and I ask him if his name is the one indicated on the card in the wallet. He says yes, and the hand that was behind my back comes forward, offering his wallet to him. He takes it and I turn to go. He says, "wait a minute," and opens the wallet to count the money. Two twenties. Without looking up he says, "ok, thanks," as he closes the door.