Winston met the children outside. They played in the large front yard of Clarke Estates.

One of the boys, with dirty blonde hair and dirt smudged on his cheeks, ran up to Winston with a crunched cracker packet in his hand.

“Grandpa!” he cried again, and stopped just short of running into Winston’s pudgy tummy. “Here,” the boy said, thrusting his cracker packet at Winston, crumbs that weren’t stuck on his skin from sweat and saliva falling from his fingers.

“Ah,” Winston said, reaching without hesitation for the half-eaten packet of crackers, orange and full of peanut butter. “Thank you, Peter,” he said.

Peter, triumphant, proudly declared, “They’re my favorite.”

“I see,” Winston said. The wrapper made wet crinkly sounds as they transferred from Peter’s hands to Winston’s.

He’s considerate and charming, Winston thought. Good traits.

Peter, task complete, turned back to his playmates. The girl grinned when Peter ran back to her, but it was the other boy’s turn to quietly approach Winston.

“Grandpa,” the boy said, his tone somber.

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

“Yes, Ricky, dear,” Winston entreated.

Ricky held up the object in his hand, which held a substantially less amount of saliva and crumbs than Peter’s had.

Ricky said nothing, simply showing the object to Winston, and Winston was quietly proud of the title of the book. It was by no means an advanced novel, but definitely of a higher caliber than what any five-year-old boy would typically read.

He’s smart and serious, Winston thought. More commendable traits.

Ricky, having left his novel with his grandpa, returned to his companions.

The girl, frowning at the two gifts left for Winston and nothing from her, steeled her shoulders and approached Winston last.

“Hello, Hana,” Winston greeted with a warm smile.

“Hi, Mister Clarke,” she said before holding out her sticky green hand with an object of her own to bestow upon Winston. “Here,” she said, with a slight shake in her voice from nerves. “For luck.”

Expecting a flower, Winston was slightly surprised to find a crumpled four-leaf-clover in the small fist of Hana’s hand. “Luck for what?” he asked, taking the clover.

Hana, taking a small step back and wiping her hands on her wrinkled pink corduroy dress, shrugged and said, “I don’t know. I heard old people need more luck than kids. Maybe from, like, falling down or something.” Hana snuck a quick, embarrassed glance at Winston’s cane, before she sniffed, wiping at her snotty nose. She offered one more smile to Winston, not so shy this time, and ran back to the boys, who were screeching and running from a bee.

Winston looked down at the clover in his hand, damp and crumpled in the palm of his hand. Then he looked at the book and the crackers. Finally, he looked at the cane grasped in his other hand and chuckled at the girl’s well wishes.

He looked up once more at the children, laughing and running in circles, before he turned back to the house.