The Good-ish Samaritan

Lena found the wallet on the F train platform, wedged between a MetroCard machine and a trash can that smelled like hot garbage and old coffee.

She picked it up without thinking. Brown leather, worn soft at the corners. Heavy. Her first thought, the one that arrived before she could stop it: rent money.

Then: No. Find the owner.

She opened it. Driver's license behind scratched plastic. Marcus Chen, 34, address in Sunset Park. The photo showed a man with tired eyes and the ghost of a smile. Behind the license: three credit cards, a library card, a CVS rewards card, and four twenties folded together.

Lena looked up. The platform was emptying after the last train. A woman in scrubs scrolled through her phone. Two teenagers shared earbuds. No one watching.

She could take the cash. Leave the wallet on the machine where someone official might find it. Marcus Chen would cancel his cards, get a new license, never know about the eighty dollars. It wouldn’t even be stealing, not really. Just... finding money. Like the universe providing.

Her phone buzzed. Venmo request from her roommate: Utilities $147. Need it by tomorrow.

Lena closed the wallet.

Then opened it again.

There was something else tucked behind the twenties. A photograph, bent at one corner. A little girl, maybe three, gap-toothed and laughing, holding a plastic dinosaur. On the back, in blue pen: Mei's first day at the museum.

Lena stared at it longer than she meant to.

She thought about posting on social media. Found wallet on F train! Help me find Marcus Chen! She could already picture it—the likes, the shares, people commenting about faith in humanity. Her ex would probably see it too. He’d called her selfish during their last fight, said she only cared about appearances. This would prove him wrong.

Her thumb hovered over the Instagram icon. Then she stopped. Why was her first thought about who would see it?

She looked at Mei again. The photo was creased from being carried around, looked at. Loved.

What if Marcus was home right now, patting his pockets, panic rising? What if he’d already canceled his cards but couldn’t stop thinking about the photo—the one his ex-wife wouldn’t send him another copy of because they only spoke about custody schedules?

Lena made that story up, but it felt possible. True in the way that mattered.

She could just call him. The address was right there. No performance, no audience. Just give the man his wallet back.

But then no one would know. She’d do this good thing, and it would disappear into the noise of the city, and she’d still owe her roommate $147 she didn’t have.

The next train was coming. She could hear it in the tunnel, feel the push of warm air.

Lena realized then she’d been standing there for five minutes trying to figure out how to be good in a way that benefited her. Calculating kindness like interest rates. Good minus cost equals worth doing.

When had she become this?

She thought about her mother, who used to volunteer at the food bank every Saturday. Dragged Lena along, even when she whined about missing cartoons, even the time she faked a stomach-ache to stay home. Her mother never posted about it, never explained. Just went, week after week, and came home smelling like industrial soup, looking tired but settled.

Lena used to roll her eyes. All that effort, and for what?

But standing there now, she wondered if maybe her mother had understood something Lena hadn’t.

The train roared in. The doors opened. She didn’t get on.

She closed Instagram. Opened Google Maps instead. Punched in Marcus Chen’s address. Forty-three minutes by train, two transfers. Past nine already. Work tomorrow at seven.

Lena looked at the photo of Mei one more time, then tucked it carefully back behind the twenties.

She got on the next train.

The whole ride, she kept waiting to feel noble. To glow the way movies said you should. But mostly she just felt annoyed about the commute, worried about being late, and a little angry at Marcus Chen for losing his wallet in the first place.

She also kept checking her phone, making sure she hadn’t accidentally opened Instagram, that her fingers hadn’t betrayed her.

When she got off at his stop, the neighborhood was quieter. More trees. A bodega cat in the window. She found his building—a brick walk-up with a broken intercom.

She could leave it with a neighbor. Slide it under his door. Be gone before anyone saw.

Instead, she pressed all the buzzers until someone let her in, then climbed to the third floor and knocked.

Marcus Chen opened the door in a t-shirt and sweatpants, holding a dish towel. Garlic and ginger drifted out.

“Hi,” she said, and held out the wallet. “I found this on the F train.”

He stared at it. Then at her. Then back at the wallet.

“Are you serious?” His voice cracked.

“Yeah. I just—” She stopped. She’d been about to invent a story about rushing straight here. But it wasn’t true. “I found it a couple hours ago. Took me a while to get here.”

Marcus took the wallet, flipped it open, pulled out the photo. Looked at it a long time, then up at Lena, his eyes wet.

“Thank you. The credit cards, whatever. But this—” He held up the photo. “My ex won’t send me another copy. It’s the only one I have from that day.”

Lena nodded. She felt something in her chest, but it wasn’t the glow she’d expected. Smaller. Quieter. Relief, maybe.

“I’m glad I found it then,” she said.

They stood there a second. Marcus seemed like he wanted to say more—offer her money, dinner—but Lena couldn’t stand the idea of him being grateful. Couldn’t stand herself for half-wanting it.

“I have to go,” she said quickly. “Work tomorrow.”

“Wait—” Marcus started, but she was already heading down the stairs.

Outside, the air was cooler. The bodega cat was gone. Lena walked toward the train.

Her phone buzzed. Her roommate again: Did you see my Venmo request?

Yeah. I’ll get it to you tomorrow, she typed back. She didn’t know how. Extra shift, maybe. Sell the old textbooks. Something.

On the train home, she didn’t check Instagram. Didn’t compose a caption in her head. She just sat, watching tunnel lights flicker past. Someone across the aisle was peeling an orange, the smell sharp and sweet, clinging to the air.

Lena thought about her mother at the food bank, humming as she worked. Thought about Mei with her plastic dinosaur. And about the $147 she still owed.

No one would ever know she’d almost kept the money. That she’d stood there doing math on kindness.

But Lena would know.

She leaned her head against the cool window and closed her eyes. It wasn’t the good feeling she’d wanted. But maybe it was the one she needed.