He was driving his cab through Central Square where he used to live before his house burned down when he saw a woman stick out her thumb. She looked to be about forty, scraggly red-brown hair in the morning sun, no pocketbook or coat, just blouse and jeans slightly disheveled.
He could smell the booze on her as soon as she slid into the front seat. “You’re not gonna turn that thing on, are ya?” she said, nodding at the meter, “cause I don’t have any money on me.”
“Nah. I try to do one Good Samaritan run every now and then, so I guess you’re it.”