Clancey and Tad went through the racks at the thrift store for something that they could afford for a few dollars. It was going to be difficult, even managing that, but one of the boys at school had made a snide remark about Tad wearing the same clothes all the time. It had hurt Tad’s feelings something awful, and Clancey was suffering for him. She’d planned this trip after one of their regular utility bills had been five dollars less than usual. Surely for that, they could find at least a couple of different shirts for him; assuming that one or two would fit him.

She looked around at the other people milling through the shop, elderly people on fixed incomes, young couples with three or four children, all hoping for something they could wear and afford. Her heart broke for them. It was such a hard life when you had nothing, when you couldn’t get a better job or find anything part-time to supplement your full-time job.

While she was studying other people, Tad was standing beside a young boy about his size, whose shirt was torn and dirty. They were both looking at the same nice shirt that would fit them, a bargain at just a dollar.

Tad smiled. “Here,” he told the other boy. “You take it. I’ll find another one.”

“You sure?” the boy stammered.

“I’m sure,” Tad said.

“Thanks,” the boy said. “I got beat up at school. This is the only shirt I had. My grandpa gave it to me for my birthday...” He choked up.

Clancey, standing behind Tad, choked up, too. Life was so hard on kids.

“I get picked on, too,” Tad replied. “We’ll grow up big and strong and one day, we’ll pummel the tar out of them!”

The other boy chuckled. “I think...”

“Eduardo,” a woman with beautiful long black hair chided as she joined them. “For shame. We forgive. We don’t hold grudges, yes?”

“Yes, Mama,” the boy said self-consciously.

“This is a nice shirt,” she said, taking it from Eduardo. But she looked at Tad and hesitated.

“His shirt has a tear,” Tad said. “Mine is okay.” He gave her a big grin.

“You sweet boy,” the woman said, and bit her lower lip. Her black eyes glistened.

“Life is hard,” Clancey said, meeting the other woman’s eyes. “But we get by.” She smiled. “God loves us.”

“Yes, He does,” the other woman said. “Your son, he’s a good boy.”

“He’s my brother, but, yes, he is. And so is yours,” she added.

“We do our best,” she replied. “He is our youngest. We have four more, over there.” She indicated taller boys, standing with a man, all bent over boxes of odds and ends. “We hope for shoes. So hard to find ones that fit!”