That was the thing I noticed first, the thing that should have told me how hard he was actually working.

Those hands haunt me a little, now, when I think back.

A thirteen-year-old’s hands, cracked and reddened and raw from hot water and harsh detergent, the hands of a laborer twice his age.

I would rub lotion into them on Sunday mornings and think, vaguely, that the diner was working him hard, and feel a small pang, and move on.

I did not let myself really look at those hands and ask what they were telling me.