At work, there was a quiet guy named Paul who always brought the same plain sandwich for lunch — no chips, no drink, nothing fancy. We teased him for it sometimes, and he’d just smile. When he quit, I helped him clean out his desk and found a stack of children’s drawings tied with a rubber band. Crayon hearts, stick figures, and notes like “Thank you, Mr. Paul.” One showed a man handing out sandwiches.

Paul never mentioned having kids, so I asked. He said, “You ever been to the West End Library around 6 p.m.? Come by sometime.”

Curious, I went. Outside the library, Paul stood with a cooler bag and brown paper sacks. About fifteen kids — some homeless — lined up as he handed each one a sandwich with a few kind words. “Most of them don’t get dinner,” he said. “So I figured I could make sure they get one meal a day.”

Those plain sandwiches weren’t just his lunch — they were practice. Peanut butter and jelly, simple and reliable. “Same sandwich every time,” he said. “Some say it’s the best part of their day.”

He’d grown up in foster care, often hungry. “I know what it’s like to be invisible,” he told me. When he later collapsed from exhaustion, I kept his promise — to keep it going. Soon, coworkers joined in, starting “Sandwich Fridays.”

Paul recovered and started a nonprofit, One Meal Ahead. He never sought praise — just kept showing up.

Heroes don’t always wear capes. Some wear brown jackets and carry lunch sacks.