I saw six people huddled on the sidewalk in front of me; through their legs I saw what looked like a body on the ground. I rushed over to see what was going on. I saw a man with a bloody gash on his head; he appeared to be unconscious. I pushed through and started checking him out using my Boy Scout first-aid training. His clothes were filthy and tattered, and he smelled bad, but a quick examination showed that his wound was not very deep.

I was a 19-year-old college kid and had just moved into my first apartment. I was walking to get acquainted with the neighborhood, when I found the injured man. “What happened?” I asked the crowd.

“He's a drunk; I'm calling the police!” responded one man.

I couldn't believe the callous response. “This man is hurt,” I cried. “He doesn't need the police—he needs help!”

I roused the man and got him to his feet. “Come on, mister, let me take you home.”

I asked him where he lived. He grunted and pointed down the block, so I took his arm and we started walking. I gave a dirty look to the guy who wanted to call the police. I was clueless that my ward might be homeless.

 …