The Borrowed Coat

When Reza arrived at the interview, the receptionist glanced at his coat and her face softened into recognition. "That's a Dawson coat," she said. "My father wore one for thirty years." Reza only smiled and thanked her, because the truth was complicated. The coat was not his. He had borrowed it that morning from a man at the shelter who had insisted, pressing it into his arms, saying a person walks taller in good wool. Reza had nearly refused. Now, sitting in the warm lobby, he understood the gift was never about the wool at all. It was permission to be seen as someone worth a chance. He resolved that whatever came of the interview, the coat would go back that night, and one day, somehow, he would pass the same kindness forward.