“Mom,” she said softly. “That man’s crying.”

I followed her gaze. Tucked between a soda machine and the wall sat a man, his body folded inward, shoulders shaking. No sign. No cup. Just quiet suffering that everyone hurried past as if he were invisible.

I tried to steer Lily away. But she held her ground.

“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