It was a cold winter afternoon before Christmas. My parents and I sat on the bench in Washington, D.C. Union Station, waiting for the train. Inside the waiting hall were many people. A boy sat nearby. His worn jacket, pale face, dirty hands all seemed to tell me that he was homeless. "He must be cold and hungry. Maybe I should help him," I said to myself. Just at that moment, a well-dressed young couple walked towards him. "Excuse me," the man bent down. "My wife and I bought two meal boxes but one was enough for us. We hate to waste good food. Can you help us out and put this to use?" he handed the boy a meal box. The boy thanked them and opened the box with joy and care. Suddenly he stopped. In the direction to which he looked, I saw an old man _ in a worn sweater, worn trousers and open shoes, entering the hall. Putting the meal box aside, the boy stood and helped the old to his seat. He took off his jacket and covered it on the old man's shoulders, saying, "A gentleman brought me this warm meal but I just finished eating. I hate to waste good food. Can you help me out?" He placed the still-warm meal box in the old man's hands without waiting for an answer. "Sure, son, but if only you share that sandwich with me. It's too much for a man at my age. " We were all touched. Dad went away and soon returned with cups of hot chocolate and a big pizza. Mum and dad went up to those rags, "Excuse me..." I rushed into a KFC and took out my pocket money. It was so cold that afternoon but I felt much warmer than I had ever thought possible. Why didn't the boy have the meal?
He was not hungry. He wanted to help the old man. He didn't like the food. He saw a sandwich in the meal box.