Leonard pulled his sleeping bag higher, trying to close the gap between the bag and the scarf he’d wound around his neck. Even in California, the small hours of an April night were chilly. He burrowed down into the bag, the plastic sheeting underneath him rustling and prompting a muttered complaint from Jose, sharing his space under the bridge for the night.

Footsteps echoing off the broken pavement made him open his eyes, peering through the small space between scarf and hat. Footsteps meant danger to homeless people such as himself – gangs out for a bit of fun, police keen to move him on or junkies high on whatever they could get their hands on. Junkies were the worst, unpredictable, often violent. Only last week he’d encountered one who was convinced he was an angel, meting out justice on anyone his addled brain deemed unworthy.

Leonard had run, but he’d later heard the junkie had smashed through the temporary camp some of his friends had set up, throwing everyone’s belongings into the river before turning on one unfortunate and beating her so badly that she ended up in the hospital. Leonard shivered and pushed back the edge of his sleeping bag to get a better look as the footsteps grew closer.

Not the junkie back for another round of mayhem, but three dangerous looking gangers. Sensing trouble, and glad that he had chosen a dark corner, Leonard unzipped his sleeping bag as quietly as he could. The gangers were poking the piles of rubbish that had accumulated under the bridge. What could they be looking for? He stuffed his sleeping bag into an old sack and took a firm grip on his precious carrier bag of possessions, ready to make a fast getaway.

One of the gangers poked a long stick into a heap of cardboard boxes. There was a yell, and someone Leonard didn’t know erupted out of the heap, fists swinging. The ganger clubbed him with the stick, sending the homeless man reeling. The ganger zip-tied the man’s hands and started dragging him away.

All around Leonard, homeless people were waking up, gathering their things and preparing to flee. One young girl simply left everything behind, running on sparrow-thin legs for the relative safety of the lit streets. The second ganger caught her easily, clamping a hand over her face and kicking her feet out from under her.

Leonard saw Jose throw something at the first ganger’s back, limping after him to try and rescue his victim. A third ganger stepped out of the shadows and flipped something around Jose’s neck, turning and hoisting the old man up, making him cough and choke. Leonard stuffed his fist into this mouth to keep from screaming. He huddled down, willing himself to become invisible, and watched with tears in his eyes as the three homeless people were dragged away and loaded into a van parked at the end of the alley. Only when the van had rattled into life and roared away did he allow himself to cry.

What could he do? He couldn’t chase the van, but he had to try and rescue Jose somehow. He felt anger at himself. He should have gone to help Jose the way Jose had gone to help the other man, but his courage had failed him. He looked around, his gaze lighting on a torn and rain-soaked pamphlet lodged behind an oil drum. He picked it up, mouthing the words written on it: Santa Luisa Mission.

Doc.

Doc would know what to do.

Leonard gathered his things and set off through the grey dawn towards the Mission.

“How’re you doing?” MacGyver smiled, pleased to see his friend looking so well. He crouched down and unloaded his bag of books onto the floor. “A few more for your collection, here.”

“I’m well, and thank you for these.” Doc picked up the top two books and smiled.

“Zane Grey? These will be popular, I’m sure of it.” The mission had been a lifesaver for Doc, providing him with a place to live and a job, one which allowed him to use his teaching skills and give something back to the community. He’d started a reading program for those of the local homeless who had slipped through the cracks in the school system, and his collection of books was always in need of new titles. A roof over his head and a steady income had improved Doc’s health, and MacGyver reflected that Doc looked younger now than when they’d first met.

The door banged open and a dishevelled figure burst through, falling full length into the pile of books. The carrier bag he’d been holding split open on impact, sending the contents shooting under the racks of donated clothing against the wall. A filthy sleeping bag in a sack rolled away under the stairwell. Doc and MacGyver scrambled up to help the fallen man.

“Leonard? Is that you?” Doc kneeled down, pushing back the matted curtain of hair. “What on earth is wrong?” MacGyver listened, but couldn’t make out the words in Leonard’s panicked speech. Doc seemed to understand, for he nodded and helped Leonard to his feet, leading him into the office. MacGyver gathered as many of Leonard’s scattered possessions as he could find, and followed.

Doc had sat Leonard down at the desk and given him a cup of coffee, which Leonard held in shaking hands. He looked at MacGyver over Leonard’s head and shook his head.

It took Doc half an hour to calm Leonard down enough to get the full story, by which time MacGyver had tidied the books, unblocked the kitchen sink and mended the window catch, making a mental note to fix his own hall window that evening. He came back to the office, waited for Doc to beckon him in, and sat down next to Leonard, making an effort not to lean away from the man’s smell. Leonard nodded his thanks as MacGyver gave him his bag, now repaired with duct tape, but wouldn’t meet his eye.