Beside the barber chair, on the small counter where Mr. Palmer kept his combs, sat a folded piece of paper and a thick roll of cash bound with a rubber band. My mind refused to make sense of it. My nine-year-old did not carry money like that. Mr. Palmer’s hand shook as he unfolded the paper and held it toward me. It was a note, written in careful, childish print, and at the top Mason had drawn a small stick figure of a man lying in a hospital bed.

I read the first lines and felt the floor tilt. “Mr. Palmer, this is for you. Please don’t be mad. I took it from the jar where Mom saves money. I heard you crying on the phone last week that you might have to close the shop.” My eyes flew to Mason, who was staring at the floor, tears finally spilling over. Twenty minutes into his haircut, he had pulled that roll from his pocket and pressed it into the hands of the man who had cut his hair since he was four. And that was when Mr. Palmer had broken down and stopped.