He nodded, tears slipping down his cheeks, then hugged me—quick, desperate, grateful—and ran toward school.
That afternoon, instead of coffee or heading home, I walked into a small shop down the street. Janice, the owner, knew me by name.
“You look like a man on a mission, Gerry,” she said.
“I need gloves. Best you’ve got. And a scarf. Kid-sized.”
She listened to the story, shaking her head with sympathy, and helped me pick out a sturdy pair of gloves and a navy scarf with bold yellow stripes. I spent my last dollar without a second thought.
Back at the bus, I placed them neatly in an old shoebox and wrote on the lid: “If you feel cold, take something. — Gerald.”
I didn’t announce it. Didn’t need to.
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