A week after I handed a tired young mother four dollars at a gas station, an envelope appeared on my desk at work with my name written across the front in careful, unfamiliar handwriting.

She dug through her purse, pulling out crumpled bills, counting them twice. Her shoulders sagged.

“I’m four dollars short,” she whispered. “Can I put the diapers back?”

I didn’t think. I didn’t weigh my options. I just reached into my wallet, pulled out four singles, and slid them into the register.

“It’s fine,” I said. “Just get home safe.”

She froze, staring at me like I’d spoken another language. Her eyes filled, but she didn’t cry. She nodded quickly, grabbed the bag, and left. I watched her through the window, holding that little boy tight as she climbed into an old sedan that had clearly lived a hard life.

Then she was gone. And the station went back to humming silence.