Years ago, I lived in a rough part of Brooklyn. On a nearby avenue, there was a small candy store. There was practically no candy in the store, and the clerks sat behind bulletproof glass, like you’d find at a bank. It was probably a cover for a drug or bookie operation.

One day, I was sitting on the front stoop, and a guy came down the street headed towards the social club. He approached us, nonchalantly saying something to the effect, “Got some smoke, got some smoke”.

After he passed us, one of my roommates commented, “You know that store up on the avenue that sells candy as a cover? This guy’s cover is selling pot. What do you think he’s really selling?

This story came back to me this evening as a coworker posted a story about giving a ride to a man on the street who claimed to be Charleton Heston’s son. I’ve met a lot of people on the street telling pretty wild stories, but as I thought about it, the story from Brooklyn came back to mind, and I wondered, who would claim to be Charleton Heston’s son as their cover, their alias.

My mind wandered to Hebrew’s 13:2, “Do not forget to show hospitality to strangers, for by so doing some people have shown hospitality to angels without knowing it.” Perhaps this was an angel, drunk on rose water, trying to find Yasujiro, François and Andrej.