Lisa

A kid on my street set up a stand. Not lemonade. A cardboard sign: FREE ADVICE. He was maybe seven. He had a folding chair and a jar of pencils, in case of paperwork. I stopped. A samurai does not pass a free consultation. "I will take one advice," I said. "Shoot." "How does a man know when he is home?" He did not hesitate. "When the dog's happy to see you." I stood very still. Eight hundred years of my family asking that question, and a seven-year-old answered it in four words while picking his nose. "That'll be twenty-five cents," he said. "The sign says free." "You got the free one. That was the free one. The dog one is premium." I paid the twenty-five cents. I would have paid a horse. That night I called my mother. No reason. In my family we do not call with no reason, so she answered already braced for death. We talked for an hour about nothing. Her neighbor's tomatoes. A drama she watches. The rain. She was happy. I could hear it. She kept finding new nothings to say so I would not hang up. The kid was right. Home is where someone's happy you called. I owe that kid twenty-five more cents. I have been going back every Saturday. His rates are insane. I pay them.