It was a big park. A big city. The man was sitting on the sidewalk. Directly on the ground. And he was barefoot.

His feet were scraped and bloody. He was picking at the sole of his foot. Maybe he was trying to remove a splinter? A shard of glass? His foot was bleeding on the pavement.

He was unshaven. His hair was bleached from sun exposure. His weathered skin bore a rich tan, like someone who has lived outside for the last few presidential administrations.

He was using a tool to pick the offensive object from his sole. A pocketknife maybe. Or a nail file. Perhaps tweezers. I was too far away to see.

The park was crowded with young people. Kids playing volleyball. Soccer. Having picnics. Doing yoga. Jogging in wolfpacks.

Nobody even looked at the man. The students passed him by in hurried steps. They seemed almost afraid of him. And, hey, I get it. College kids. First time living away from home. Here they are, in a public place, with dad’s credit card in their wallet, while visions of Chipotle danced in their heads.

The last thing these students needed was to get caught up with a panhandler who might ask them for crack money. So they avoided eye contact. To them, the man was furniture. It’s the safe thing to do.

But then I saw a young guy break from the herd of students.

The kid was tall and skinny. He wore a T-shirt with the name of a band on it. A band I don’t recognize because I quit listening to radio somewhere around the time they quit playing Conway Twitty.

The kid sat next to the man on the sidewalk. I couldn’t hear what they were discussing, but I could read the body language. Soon, the kid was inspecting the man’s foot. The kid leaned in to get a better look, his nose only inches from the man’s calloused and bloodred sole.

The boy apparently offered to try removing the object from the man’s foot because soon, the kid was digging around in the guy’s heel with the tool.

The man looked like he was in pain. His teeth were grit. His eyes were closed tightly. Blood was on the sidewalk.

After a few minutes, success. You could see the relief on both faces. The kid had removed the shard from the man’s foot. He held the splinter up to the light. Victory.

They were laughing now. The energy between them changed. They both seemed so cheery, so happy.

The kid stood and shook the guy’s hand. Before they parted ways, the kid removed his own rubber sandals and presented the shoes to the man.

The man’s body language was one of refusal. He shook his head. No, no. He wasn’t going to take a kid’s shoes. What kind of a depraved person would take a college kid’s shoes?

But the boy insisted. He shoved the sandals toward the man, gesturing that he WANTED the man to have them.

There were no cameras around. The kid wasn’t seeking attention. He wasn’t posing for selfies to publicize his charitable act on social media for likes and shares. He just wanted the guy to take the shoes.

The man hesitantly accepted. He gave the boy a pained smile. A smile you nail to your face because you’re overcome with powerful emotion.

The man rose, standing on a bloody foot, and they embraced. Back slapping ensued.

When they finally said goodbye, the kid walked directly past me. Now barefoot. And smiling. I thought I saw him wipe his eye. Although I can’t be sure because I was too busy wiping mine.