Tucker insisted on chocolate milk.
Ron complained that the portions were too small.
The waitress told him he could order another breakfast if he was still hungry.
Everyone laughed.
Then Tucker suddenly became quiet.
He reached into his pocket.
I watched him.
He removed a small paper envelope.
My chest tightened.
I recognized it immediately.
The envelope containing his original seven dollars and forty cents.
He had kept the money for more than a year.
He placed it on the table.
Then he looked directly at me.
“Bear?”
I swallowed.
“Yeah, buddy?”
“Remember when I tried to hire you?”
I nodded.
“Sure do.”
He opened the envelope.
The five-dollar bill.
The two singles.
The quarter.
The dime.
The five pennies.
He spread them carefully between our coffee mugs, almost exactly as he had done the first time.
Then he looked at the three enormous bikers sitting across from him.
“Are you guys still for hire?”
Ron went completely still.
The third biker lowered his coffee.
I stared at Tucker.
“What do you need, boss?”
He looked toward the money.
Then he looked up.
“I want to hire you to help another kid.”
I felt my throat tighten.
Tucker continued.
“Somebody who doesn't have a team yet.”
Nobody spoke.
He pushed the seven dollars and forty cents toward me.
“You can use this.”
I looked at his tiny hands.
Then at the money.
Then at Angie.
She was crying.
Sarah's mother had covered her mouth.
Ron stared toward the window, blinking rapidly.
I reached across the table and gently pushed the envelope back toward Tucker.
“Buddy, you remember what I told you last time?”
He nodded.
“Sometimes people help because they want to.”
I smiled.
“Exactly.”
He looked disappointed.
“But I want to help too.”
I considered that.
Then I reached into my vest.
I removed a small donation envelope from the One More Seat program.
I placed it on the table.
“Well, then maybe you've got an idea.”
Tucker leaned closer.
“What?”
“You could make your first donation to help another child.”
His eyes widened.
“Like the people who helped me?”
“Just like them.”
He looked toward Angie.
She smiled through tears.
“It's your money, sweetheart.”
Tucker thought carefully.
Then he placed the seven dollars and forty cents inside the donation envelope.
He folded it.
Then he handed it to me.
I stared at the tiny envelope.
For a moment, the years disappeared.
I was back at that first diner table.
A frightened five-year-old boy was standing before me, asking whether seven dollars and forty cents could defeat cancer.