I stopped at the shoe store on Main Street before heading back to the farm, using cash from yesterday’s sweet corn stand sales.

Ben was sitting on the back porch steps when I pulled into the farmyard, his left foot turned inward to hide the strip of black electrical tape holding his canvas shoe sole together.

I set the blue shoebox right on his knees.

He looked up at me without saying a word, his eyes wide, then pulled off the lid and lifted out the fresh black running shoes.

“Are these really for Monday’s track tryouts?” he asked.