Stop, here.

Morning drive-by:
A kid, nineteen or twenty, loping along in long, baggy cargo shorts and a t-shirt that swallowed him. Tanned like a road worker, white-rimmed sunglasses, short, hair. A buzzcut. Looking too serious for his years, he stood at the side of the road watching traffic to the left and right. I stopped and waved him across but he turned his back to me.Then he held up a hand, and yelled, "Okay, stop here." A dozen four year olds, all in little red shirts that matched his came to a halt, then formed a single crooked line. Like a momma duck, he led them across, standing in the middle of the road until they scampered to safety.

A teenage camp counselor, taking the job seriously. I knew this kid was a hero to someone in that little group if only because of the white rimmed sunglasses, big shorts and because he probably called them "dude."

But I liked him because he made me feel good about everyone.

Except the crying dog-walker. I still wonder about him.