Officer Harris watched how they moved around, every day, each day little different than any other. In the early morning he watched how they drifted out of the highway underpasses and down from loading docks where they slept their nights. He watched how they moved into their regular spots, near the train stations, elevated exits, coffee shops, tourist magnets, anywhere there was a steady flow of people, workers who hurried to their offices, tourists who loitered in the idleness of vacation. He watched how they worked—yes, he slowly came to realize, it was definitely work—some hitting up passersby with friendly, wheedling chatter. Some bluntly voicing the specifics of their plight, their tone more urgent, desperate. And some who huddled on the sidewalk, head down and silent, sending out their plea with a few words markered onto a piece of cardboard. He watched how some of them lingered around garbage cans, some warily peering inside and others boldly reaching in, poking at discarded bags in the hope of more than just paper wrapping. He watched as they ate what food they could get—from garbage cans, from generous office workers who stepped out of shops with an extra bag, from restaurant employees through alley doors—some voraciously, right out on the open street, others skulking away down alleys.
Lots of vivid details make it feel real.