I was wiping down trays behind the counter when I noticed a man standing just outside the door. He wore a worn flannel shirt and carried a plastic bag over one shoulder. His eyes looked kind, though clearly tired. After a moment’s hesitation, he stepped inside. The scent of the outdoors clung to him, a reminder of how long he’d been on the move.
We’re right off the highway, so travelers often stop by—not always for food, but sometimes just to warm up. I was about to greet him when my 12-year-old son, Nevan, beat me to it. Nevan was sitting in a booth near the soda fountain, waiting for my shift to end, finishing off his fries.
The man slowly approached the counter and, in a gentle voice, asked, “What can I get for 50 cents?”
