When we made it to the city, it was already six-forty and we had twelve blocks to walk and to be in our seats in twenty minutes—not an easy task with a seven year old and Times Square traffic.

“Hold my hand and keep walking, and we’ll see the lions soon enough,” I told Charles.

We passed a salvation army collection tin, the classic type with a man ringing a bell.

“Every penny helps,” he said. “Help feed the homeless. Every penny helps.”

I felt a tug at my hand, and Charles had stopped and stared at the man. “Charles, let’s go,” I said, but he stood planted, his face hanging open.

“What’s that man doing?” He asked.

“He’s collecting money for the homeless,” I said.

“The who?”

“The people that don’t have homes.” Someone must have told him about homeless people in school by now. “What’s gotten into you, Charles?”

He stared at the man and the lights from the billboards ran circles and a car commercial larger than the biggest animal on earth flashed in perfect picture on the side of a television.

“Do you want to give the man some money?” I asked Charles.

He turned to me then as if he finally understood. “We’d better,” he said, “Or who else will?”

My son, Charles, would be the next Dalai Llama. Mother Theresa, a role model. He’d rework the entire soup kitchen situation, homeless shelters, and find jobs for everyone. My son would do all of this. I handed him thirty-seven cents, and he reluctantly stepped towards the man and the ringing bell, and the jar. He let the money fall.

The man nodded to Charles. “Every penny helps! Feed the homeless!” His voice repeated for all of Times Square to hear.