Hazel and Martin: A Story of Loyalty, Survival, and Small Acts of Kindness. The first time I saw him was outside a 24-hour laundromat — curled up on a worn camping mat, with an orange cat stretched across his chest. Her name was Hazel. One ear was half gone, but her calm breathing matched his, like they were perfectly in sync.
He looked worn down — duct-taped shoes, a trash bag for a backpack. I didn’t know his name then, but I started leaving food from the café where I worked. He never asked, just thanked me every time, always letting Hazel eat first.
Eventually, I sat beside him on the curb. That’s when I learned her name — Hazel — and that she had chosen him. He told me little bits of…
