Parents walking their kids crossed the street to avoid passing his stand.

One mother actually covered her child’s eyes as they hurried past, like cancer was contagious. Like looking at a dying child would somehow curse them.

Tyler didn’t cry. He just sat there in his bright yellow shirt that hung off his skeletal frame, waiting. His mason jar stayed empty. His smile never faltered, even though I could see his bottom lip trembling.

Then the rumble started. Low and deep, like thunder rolling in from the distance. Tyler’s head snapped up. His eyes went wide. Four bikers on Harleys were coming down our quiet suburban street, leather vests gleaming in the afternoon sun.

The neighbors started pulling their kids inside. Mrs. Henderson actually ran to her front door, slamming it shut like we were under attack. But