Down the road from The Diner, in a narrow alleyway between a bowling alley and a liquor store, Kevin is doing his regular early morning search.  He's digging through the garbage cans, looking to see if he can find anything worth saving.  Something that other people can't use, but he can.  Wearing a pair of filthy blue jeans, a once-white t-shirt, now stained beige from sweat and dirt, the homeless man carries everything he owns in a black backpack - emblazoned with the Worldcom logo on it.  Not his of course, just something else that he found thrown out.  A little duct tape and the backpack was good as used.<br/><br/>Putting the lid back on the garbage can, he picks up his backpack, slinging it over one shoulder, and shuffles his way down the alleyway, towards the street.  Looking up at the sun, he runs his fingers through his long scraggly hair, pushing it backwards.  It was going to be another scorcher of a day.  His face was very tan, from being out in the sun most of the day.  His long unkempt beard was itchy on his face, but he could hardly waste his money on things like a shave when he could hardly feed himself.<br/><br/>Where had it all gone so wrong?  He thinks to himself as he heads down the alleyway, turning the corner.  He doesn't emerge at the main street, regular folk didn't want to see homeless people like him, so he emerges on a smaller back street.  His black shoes flap, the soles peeling off slowly.  Everyday they seemed to tear a little more.  He needed to find a pair of new shoes - next to impossible - or some more duct tape to hold them together a while longer, until maybe he could get back on his feet.  He heads towards the only place where folks treat him as a person rather than a problem:  The Diner.