“What’s wrong with him?” she asked.

“Maybe he’s having a hard day,” I said gently.

“Maybe he’s hot and thirsty,” she replied. Before I could stop her, she walked toward him, lemonade clutched tight.

“Hi, sir,” she said in her small, serious voice. “Don’t be sad. Be happy. It’s a nice day. Not raining or snowing or anything. Are you hot? Why don’t you go home? The ground is dirty.”

The man looked up, startled. His eyes were glassy, rimmed red.

“I don’t have a home,” he rasped. “But I’ll be okay.”

Lily’s face crumpled. “So you’re homeless,” she whispered. “That means no refrigerator… no food…”

Then she did something that stole my breath. She pulled three wrinkled dollars from her rainbow coin purse—the one she’d been filling with birthday money and spare change—and pressed them into his hand, along with her lemonade.