A middle-aged man, Mike, is hanging around outside Tim Hortons, opening the door for customers. He’s got a garbage bag for a raincoat, soaked and soiled trousers, and Forrest Gump’s hair and beard. Some random fellow, hood up, comes through the open door, an extra-large drink in hand. Without even looking at Mike, he passes him a twenty, says, “Happy Thanksgiving,” and is gone in an instant.

Mike’s not one to celebrate Thanksgiving. For him, the holiday is for people with things to give thanks for—family, friends, turkeys, and pumpkin pies. As for the twenty, he’s more than grateful. He stares at the green bill, scratches his head, and asks himself what he did to deserve such luck. Meanwhile, he knows exactly what to save it for—a good deed for someone special. But who? Not his ex. Not that kind of special. Definitely not his brother.

“No offense, Mike,” he said, last time they crossed paths, “but you’re not exactly a role model for your nephews.”

The only special person Mike can think of is his pal, Ronnie. If Ronnie were a dog, his tail would always be wagging, no matter what. Smack him and he’ll give you his best toothless smile. Long before they met, cocaine laced with animal anti-worming powder nearly killed Ronnie, and though he survived, his life unraveled. Now, he spends his days outside the Filmores Gentlemen’s Club, holding a cardboard sign that says Loonies and Toonies for Ronnie.

Ronnie’s the one who got Mike hooked on good deeds in the first place, long before the incident at Tim’s. One morning during breakfast at the drop-in center, Mike offered him his egg, seeing as Ronnie had finished his and was scrounging the last bits off the shell.

“Consider your good deed done for the day,” Ronnie said as if Mike had handed him a golden egg and not simply a hard-boiled one. “Do another one for a non-Ronnie later.”

Fast forward a few months. Besides cramps in his legs, it’s the thought of doing a good deed that gets Mike up in the morning. Sometimes, on fine days, he’ll go look for his friend, Mrs. Sadie, and offer to push her across four lanes of impatient traffic in her wobbly wheelchair with his wobbly leg so she can relax in the park. He once brought a young lady to the nursing station after a client paid with a fist instead of cash. It took a while to convince them that Mike wasn’t the client.

Not everyone appreciates his good deeds. Take for example the time he tried to do one for the fellows in charge of the supermarket shopping carts. They wouldn’t let him near them. If he made their job easier, the big boss would slash their already measly hours. Helping people carry their groceries gets him the same negative reaction. The supermarket’s security guards squint their eagle eyes the instant Mike strolls through those doors with their automatic cameras and automatic suspicion. They won’t let him near customers, almost got him arrested once, and accused him of harassment and stealing.

Pushing kids on swings would be a good deed, except the moms would gang up on him. Same goes for shoveling snow from walkways. When Mike tried it, people jumped to conclusions and assumed he was scheming to break into their homes. Picture Mike limping down the street, a fifty-inch flat-screen TV in his arms. “Dearest friends, please join me at home for a treat of Disney and popcorn.”

Mike’s no thief. Not a complainer either. As far as he’s concerned, his space in the porch of that derelict insurance building is a palace compared to what some folks live in—doesn’t matter that it’s only five feet wide, a foot under his height. “That’s why knees bend,” he tells himself. He makes do with a plastic covered mattress, two sleeping bags, and a wool blanket for the cold nights. During winter’s freezing temperatures, if the shelter’s full, he heads to the nearest parking garage and finds an unlocked car to sleep inside. And if he discovers something valuable, like an iPhone or wallet forgotten on the seat, Mike wouldn’t lay a pinkie on it because he knows good deeds get cancelled out by dishonesty. Integrity’s all he’s got—that and a bad leg. He wouldn’t have such a noticeable limp if security hadn’t thrown him out of the emergency room last year. They assumed he was high and hallucinating when in fact he was the victim of a hit-and-run, wild with pain. He’s scrawny, has a bad case of acne, and lost a front tooth. “Looking like an addict doesn’t mean you are one,” he’s said more than once.

Ronnie’s the only person who knows about the twenty. He tells Mike to spend it on lottery tickets.

“No siree,” Mike says. Gambling is what sent him slithering down that slippery black hole in the first place, a gauntlet of loss along the way, including job, wife, dignity, purpose.

“Spend it on gas, then,” Ronnie says. “Head to Niagara Falls, radio on bust, singin’ along to ‘Stayin’ Alive,’ windows down, elbow pokin’ out like a shark’s fin, whistlin’ at gorgeous gals.”

“How about I spend it on you?” Mike says, deciding to not remind Ronnie that he doesn’t own a car or listen to seventies music. “I’ve been meaning to do something for you.”

“Me?” Ronnie pats Mike’s shoulder. “Waste of a twenny. Spend it on yerself.”

Mike shrugs. “On scum and riffraff like me?”

“If scum and riffraff’s ain’t worth a few scraps of kindness, who the blazin’ hell is, Mike?”

Mike pinches the twenty between his scrawny fingers, stares at Her Majesty, and says to himself, “God save the Queen.” Then, in a whisper, “God save me.”

Then again, who says he wants to be saved? Even if he could, he’s not sure he wants to go back to playing the employee, husband, and brother with a calendar full of reminders, meetings, birthdays, and tee times.

Later, a staff worker at the drop-in center tells him about the upcoming free makeovers. “Sleeping rough doesn’t have to mean looking rough,” she says, drumming her shiny red nails on the sign-up sheet.

Mike is tempted to say, “I bet you sleep in a king-size bed topped with enough fluffy pillows to soften a fall off the CN Tower.” Instead, he says, “Thank you, ma’am, but what about thinking rough, lost in a mad maze of disappointments and dead ends? Any makeovers for that?”

“One step at a time, Michael,” she says.

Makeover day comes and he’s first in line. The barber eyes his matted knots, wishes he’d brought a saw, and questions his choice of profession. He gives Mike a crew cut, then tells him it’s the newest style, as if Mike had any in the first place. He tugs on Mike’s beard, says, “An axe might work better,” and hands him a razor and shaving cream.

Once the grooming’s complete, Mike gawks at the guy in the mirror. He says, “Who are you?”

At the community clothing bank, the best trousers he can find fall about an inch above his ankles. Other than that, they serve the purpose well. So do the barely used checkered wool shirt and the duffel coat with the plastic toggle missing. He keeps the lined hood up. Even at fifteen degrees, his head suffers in the cool breezes.

At breakfast the next day, Ronnie glares at him and says, “Holy mackerel. Are you sure that’s you?”

Mike shakes his head. “Nope.”

“You done a great deal,” Ronnie says. “I mean, a great deed. Top it off and go splurge at that donut joint. Eat a couple of their sandwiches. Put some flesh on that face. While yer there, pick me up a handful of them whatchamacallits they make from the holes.”

“Timbits for Ronnie, coming up,” says Mike.

No one opens the door for him at Tim’s. He drapes his parka over a stool, then waits in line.

“What can I get for you, sir?” the cashier says, smiling like his pay depends on pleasing the customer.

Mike places his order, unfolds the twenty, and lays it on the counter. “Keep the change,” he says.