Fragments of broken glass glitter like emeralds on the cold cement. The rain beats down on a vast suburban jungle of grey and black; people go on in ignorance, not knowing or caring for the business of others.

He stands beneath a street sign, jingling his metal cup. The crowd pushes past him, not hearing his cries. His face is streaked with tears and rain, his clothes but dirty rags.

“Spare change,” he calls to the wind and the bustling mass of people. “Spare change for a poor man.”

It is hard to believe that he was not always like this. He was once a rich man, with an office high in the rooftops. Now he begs at the corner of the street where he used to work, and the people who used to work for him look down their noses at him.

“Spare change,” he cries again. A passing umbrella grazes his shoulder, drenching him with icy water, and he winces.

He is not so good at this now. He is forty-seven years old next week; he had his job for ten years, then he was fired. He was evicted from his flat because he couldn’t pay the rent. He runs a hand through his rapidly disappearing hair and jingles his cup.

“Spare change…” nobody even glances at him. He slumps to the ground, dejected and cold, alone in the growing darkness and the pouring rain.

A group of giggling schoolgirls passes him on their way to the train station.

“Oooh, look at the beggar,” one of them laughs, and throws him a two dollar coin. A tall girl with dark hair stands at the back, apart from the others.

“Please,” he says hoarsely. She looks away from him, avoiding her own father. She is ashamed of what he has become, of what the world has made him. She lives with her mother now, in a penthouse apartment on the other side of the city.

A few of her friends raise their eyebrows and ask if she knows him. She shakes her head and strides away. They follow her, glancing backwards at the man huddled on the street corner.

The rain is pouring down now, mingling with the fresh tears on his cheeks. He scrabbles on the ground for the coin the girl gave him, and finds himself facing a pair of expensive heels.

He looks up, into the face of the woman who used to be his secretary.

“Hello,” he mumbles. She smiles amiably at him.

“Need some help, sir?” she asks, extending a hand. He grasps her hand and gets to his feet.

“You don’t need to call me ‘sir’ anymore,” he says softly, looking at his feet.

“I know,” she says airily. She grips his hand in both of hers briefly, then smiles once more and turns to leave.

He looks down at his hand and calls after her, “I can’t take this.”

She turns around mid-stride and replies, “Yes, you can. Just take it, sir.”

She disappears into the darkness of the street. He looks down once more at the hundred-dollar bill in his hand and allows himself a small smile.