Chapter 3
I straightened up out of pure instinct. "It's fifty cents."
He reached into his vest and set a twenty-dollar bill flat on the table.
I pushed it back toward him with two fingers, certain it was a mistake. "That's too much."
He glanced over his shoulder at the line of riders standing quietly behind him, then looked back at me, and his voice came out gentle in a way I wasn't ready for.
"No," he said. "It's not enough."
My mother's hand came up over her mouth on the porch behind me.
My hands were shaking when I poured the cup. He took it, drank one slow sip like he was judging something far more important than lemonade, and nodded once.
"Best lemonade on this street," he said.
Then the second rider stepped forward and set down another twenty.
And another rider behind him did the same.
May you like
And another.
I stood there with the pitcher still in my hand, watching a line of strangers I had never met quietly fill a mason jar I'd brought out as an afterthought, twenty dollars at a time, none of them saying much beyond a kind word or a nod toward the house. I looked up at the window where Noah had pressed both hands flat against the glass, staring like he didn't trust what he was seeing. My mother was openly crying now, both hands over her face, shoulders shaking.
