The sun had just begun to rise above the rooftops when seven-year-old Tyler dragged his small wooden table to the edge of the sidewalk. He moved slowly, his thin arms trembling from effort, but he refused to ask for help.

This stand, this moment, this tiny act of independence—he wanted it to be his. He wanted to feel, even for a little while, like a normal child doing something simple and hopeful on a summer day.He placed a stack of paper cups on the corner of the table, each one carefully aligned, as if the neatness alone could convince people to stop.

He opened the lid of the bright blue cooler beside him and checked the pitcher of lemonade his mother had helped him make that morning. The sweet scent of lemons and sugar drifted into the air, but the street…CONTINUE READING…