Give me five minutes.
Savannah was positively ecstatic. Nine whole weeks had passed since she'd first seen her beloved in town. The instant their eyes met, she knew they must be inseparable. Nothing could stop them from being together. Nine agonizing weeks they had been kept apart, and now she could finally take him home.
"Honey, don't worry; it'll still be there when we get there."
"He," Savannah insisted petulantly. "His name is Rosco."
"Of course, baby. He'll still be there when we get there, so stop bouncing around."
She tried her best to do as she was told, gripping the sides of the seat and craning her neck to stare out the windshield. It felt like time was crawling, like traffic was creeping along just to hinder them. The entire world was convening to keep her from her one true love.
They couldn't keep such a wonderful pair apart forever, though. Eventually, Savannah was fumbling at her seatbelt, ready to go ripping through the doors to the other side of that window display. Her mother had only barely opened the door when the little girl came tumbling out, regaining her feet with that special six-year-old grace.
"Don't run, Savannah!"
Uttering a protracted whine, the girl obeyed, slowing to a pained stroll along the sidewalk. How could her mother be so cruel as to hold her back with the doors of the shop in sight? The window was just there, and in a few more steps, she would see him, all stuffed plush glory and downy golden fur. Those brown eyes, bigger and more loving than her own, would be calling out to her, forlorn and hopeful all at once. Savannah could hardly bear it.
Just as she reached the door and began to push on the handle, however, a plaintive voice caught her ears.
"Have a nice day, missy."
As six-year-olds have a peculiar sort of grace, they also have a peculiar sort of curiosity, and so Savannah turned to face the speaker, eyes wide.
The man was sitting on the sidewalk, an empty, rusted soup can on the ground beside him and one sleeve of his tattered flannel shirt empty. His beard was scraggly, and his hair was thinning and unkempt. Something in Savannah wanted to run away, but he didn't look angry or frightening. He looked sad.
She mustered up a missing-tooth smile for him, saying brightly, "Sure thing, Mister." Her mother's hand on her shoulder was now tugging her gently back.
"You know, your shirt's a little ripped." It was that sincere honesty that only children can manage, never aimed to hurt, but striking the heart all the same. "You can buy a new one in the store," she added, pointing through the doors. "I'm gonna buy a puppy with the money I saved up."
Savannah thought she saw tears in the man's eyes, and when he finally managed a smile, she found that he had less teeth than she did.
"I don't have no money, missy," he confessed, showing her the can.
She blinked a few times, trying to push away her mother's ever-insistent hand. "Is that where you keep your money?"
Shaking his head slowly, the man answered, "I don't have nowhere else to put it."
There was a silence in their little square of sidewalk. Savannah's mother finally broke it with an urgent whisper.
"Savannah, let's go. Don't you want your puppy?"
After a moment, the brown-haired child pulled her green plastic purse in front of her, adjusting the strap on her shoulder. She snapped it open and dug around inside.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine. Nine meticulously-folded dollar bills made their appearance in turn. One for each long week Savannah had worked. One for each week she'd dreamt of a soft stuffed puppy beside her in bed. Then nine dollar bills were carefully placed into the crusted tin can in the man's gnarled hand.
When their eyes met again, there was no doubt that he was crying. Tears made clean tracks down his dirty, wrinkled cheeks as he said softly, "God bless you, child. God bless you."
Only then did Savannah turn toward her mother and allow herself to be guided away. Silently, they walked back to the car.
"Sweetie, are you crying because you won't get the puppy? I can buy you the puppy." The mother was wiping at her daughter's eyes, cradling her round, childish face in her hands.
Savannah shook her head, chocolate eyes filled to the brim and overflowing. "No, Mommy. He doesn't have a puppy. He doesn't even have a coat. That's how come I'm crying."