“Actually, they’re just as welcome. They’re just not going to be welcome to use public streets and sidewalks as their campsites and bathrooms anymore.”

“So where else would they go?”

“Are we talking bathrooms? They go to the bathroom in bathrooms, like the rest of us.”

“The rest of us who have homes, Wes. I think that’s more or less the point. They don’t.”

“You’re right. But you notice we’re loaded with shelters and public toilets.”

“They don’t like the shelters. They’re dangerous and dirty.”

“And the streets aren’t? Besides, this may sound like a cruel cli ché, my dear, but where do you think we get the expression ‘Beggars can’t be choosers’?”

“I can’t believe you just said that. That is so”-Sam dredged up about the worst epithet she could imagine-“so right wing.”

Wes looked down, went to a knee, and snapped his fingers, bringing Gertrude close in for a quick pet. “It’s all right, girl, your mom and I aren’t fighting. We’re just talking.” Standing up, he said, “She’s getting upset.”

“So am I. If you try to pet me to calm me down, I’ll deck you.”

“There’s a tolerant approach. And meanwhile, I hate to say this, but it’s not a right wing, left wing issue here. It’s a health and quality of life issue. Feces and urine on public streets and playgrounds and parks pose a health risk and are just a little bit of a nuisance, I think we can admit. Are we in accord here?”

Sam, arms folded, leaned back against the windows of the coffee shop, unyielding.

“Sam,” Wes continued, “when I take Gertie out for a walk, I bring a bag to clean up after her. That’s for a dog. You really think it’s too much to ask the same for humans?”

“It’s not the same thing.”

“Why not?”

“Because a lot of these people, they have mental problems too. They don’t even know they’re doing it, or where.”