“Just a second,” he said. Before I could even realize what was happening, he took one of the $5.99 pencils and told the cashier to ring it up. “Dad, what are you doing?” I asked him. He ignored me and handed the cashier six dollars—the entirety of our recycling money that day. I watched the whole thing unfold with my mouth open. Outside the shop, my dad kneeled down so that he was my level. “You are not a bicycle,” he said. My eyes searched his. “Do you understand?” he asked. He reached down, took my small hand, and opened it. He put the new, expensive pencil in it.
