The neighbors started pulling their kids inside. Mrs. Henderson actually ran to her front door, slamming it shut like we were under attack. But Tyler stood up. For the first time in three hours, he stood up.

The lead biker, a massive man with a gray beard down to his chest, pulled up to the curb right in front of Tyler’s stand.

He took off his helmet, and that’s when he saw it. The small handwritten note Tyler had taped under his price sign. The real reason he was sitting out here.

The biker’s whole face changed. He turned to his brothers, said something I couldn’t hear, and all four of them killed their engines.

“Hey there, little man,” the lead biker said, walking up to Tyler’s stand. “How much for a cup?”

Tyler’s voice was barely a whisper. “Fifty cents, sir. But…” He pointed to the note under his sign.

The biker knelt down to read it. I saw his shoulders start to shake. This terrifying-looking man who probably weighed 300 pounds was crying as he read whatever Tyler had written on that piece of paper.

The note said: “I’m not really selling lemonade. I’m selling memories. My mom needs money for my funeral but she doesn’t know I know. Please help me help her before I die. – Tyler, age 7”