A Seven-Year-Old Boy Rode Three Miles Across Phoenix to Save His Little Sister

My business card was in the front slot, creased at one corner.

MORALES FLOORING, the truck number, my cell.

I slid it across the table.

“I don’t know what this is going to cost,” I said.

“Legal fees.

Time off work.

If you need help covering anything, you call me.

I mean that.”