Fat drops of rain splattered on our windshield. We pulled into the gas station.

Most of the time, South Florida storms stop quickly. Today was different. Today, the sky looked angrier than usual. The rain did not stop.

The world around us was hard to see. It looked blurry.

It was so dark in the afternoon that it looked like night time. The wind was angry and shook palm fronds, branches, and leaves around us.

“We just made it,” my mom said.

She pointed to the gas gauge on her console. It lit up in an angry shade of orange.

As my mother opened the car door, the wind knocked the door closed again. Surprised, we both gasped at the same time. Shaking her head, my mother laughed and pushed it open again.

I could see her fighting the storm to get out of the car. The door shut behind her with a loud slam. She struggled to get to the pump.

It was then that I saw him.

He stood about twenty feet away from us. He stood on the border between the storm and the gas station’s protective overhang. His two-dollar poncho flapped around him, his hands folded under his plastic covering. He made sure he was far enough away from the pumps that he wouldn't bother the customers. This left him exposed to the biting rain.

His eyes closed for a few seconds. The driving rain covered his face and graying hair, soaking him from every direction. He was a large man, thick, with a brown and gray beard. I could imagine him as a fisherman or a truck driver or a miner, someone who worked with his hands.

He leaned against a cement pillar, still and silent. He was the opposite of the noisy, messy weather that surrounded him.

My mother scrunched up her face. I wondered if her worried look was because of the storm, or because she was worried that the man would approach her for money. She said nothing to me as I watched her insert her credit card to pay for the gas.

A few cars were at the pumps around us, and the drivers finished before we did. We were alone with the man now, but he may as well have been in another city. He didn’t even look our way. His eyes were set on the flooded streets around him.

Not wanting to stare, I looked at him briefly. I wondered how he had arrived at the gas station and how long he had been there. I knew I would never know the answers to these questions.

I watched as he stared out at his surroundings and I sat comfortable in my car. At that moment, I felt a need to reach out to him in some way. I wanted to let him know that the whole world was not as bad as the storm made it seem.

My mom finished pumping the gasoline. I motioned toward the man.

“Do you think I could give him some money, Mom?” I asked.

She looked at me and then at the man. She didn’t say anything for a few seconds. I could tell she struggled with the answer. A few moments later, she nodded. She grabbed her wallet, pulling out a ten-dollar bill.

“Is this a good amount?” she asked.

“That’s perfect," I said. "Thanks."

Taking the money from her wet fingers, I pushed open my door on the passenger side of our car. I put my hoodie up over my head. As I got out of the car, the storm had gotten worse. Now, the wind was so noisy it made everything around it seem quiet.

I walked over to the man and stopped about seven feet away from him. I knew I would have to scream for him to hear me. After a few seconds, he turned in my direction.

I took a few steps closer to him. I tried not to worry that he might yell at me for talking to him or even try to hurt me somehow. I silently yelled at myself for what now felt like a really bad idea.

Second guesses filled my head. Maybe he was drunk or high or mentally unstable. But I was there, and he was looking at me, wondering why I was standing there. I stood about three feet away from him now. I leaned slightly toward him to hand him the money.

I cleared my throat and yelled against the loud rain, “Just in case you need this for something.”

He smiled a grateful, sad smile. “You are a special guy,” he yelled back, as he took the money from my hand. “Thank you so much.”

Without looking at the bill, he slipped it under his poncho and into a pocket in his shirt.

In his dark brown eyes, I saw that he meant what he said, but there was even more.

At first, it looked to me like he was hoping for a better life. Then, I realized I was the one hoping for a better life for him. I was the one hoping he had a warm, dry place to live in. I wanted him to be surrounded by friends and family who loved him. Mostly, I wanted him to have somewhere to go besides this gas station on the corner of a busy road.

Swallowing hard and unsure of my voice, I answered, “My pleasure. Stay safe.”

I turned and walked back to our car. My mom was waiting with the car running and wipers on. The raindrops had found their way to the windshield even though we were under the awning.

She buckled her seat belt. “Ready?” she asked, as I sat down.

I said nothing, but half smiled. We slowly made our way out of the parking lot. The only sound in our car was our windshield wipers swishing back and forth, trying to get rid of the water.

I turned back in my seat. The man smiled and raised his hand at me. He wasn’t totally clear because the window was foggy. I waved with excitement and tried to blink away the tears in my eyes. At that moment, my only wish in the world was to change this man’s life, so that he never had to stand there again.

As we drove home, the storm began to stop. Within forty-five minutes, the sun came out of the clouds. I knew that in a few more hours the storm would be gone. Only a few branches and puddles would remain.

I hoped the man at the gas station was warm and safe. I hope he knows I still think about him.