It was five in the morning, the dead hour at the diner. A young man in fatigues came in, eyes heavy from a flight halfway around the world.
He ordered coffee and a biscuit. When he reached for his wallet, his hands shook. He was fourteen cents short.
Before I could say anything, the man behind him in line pulled out a quarter. 'Keep the change,' he said, and slid it across the counter. The soldier just nodded, too tired for words.
That small kindness hit me like a truck. My own boy is over there right now, somewhere I can't picture. I wonder who's covering his fourteen cents.
At home, there's a can of paint in the garage. I wrote 'touch-ups' on it three years ago, meaning to fix the trim around his bedroom door. I never did. He was always gone.
I poured the soldier's coffee and watched him sip it slow. I didn't say anything, but I made sure his biscuit had extra butter.
Maybe that's what family means. The people who show up when you're short, even if they're strangers you'll never see again.