Every conversation stopped. Fifteen leather-clad veterans sat frozen, staring at this tiny kid in a dinosaur shirt who’d just asked us to commit murder like he was requesting extra ketchup. His mother was in the bathroom, had no idea her son had approached the scariest-looking table in the Denny’s, had no idea what he was about to reveal.
“Please,” he added, his voice small but determined. “I have seven dollars.” He pulled out crumpled bills from his pocket, placing them on our table between the coffee cups. His little hands were shaking, but his eyes were dead serious.
