The last bell of the year had already rung. Yearbooks were still passing from hand to hand, papers covered the floor, and backpacks sat fat with summer. One boy waited by the door until the room was almost empty. Then he walked to my desk and held out a small paper envelope as if it might break. Inside was a Starbucks gift card. I thanked him the way teachers thank a hundred end-of-year presents, assuming his parents had grabbed it on the way to school. He smiled with a relief I did not understand and ran to catch his friends.

A few days later I used the card and mentioned, casually, that a student had given it to me. The manager looked at it, then at me, and asked if it had come from a young boy. When I said yes, her face changed. For nearly a month he had come in with spare change in his fist. Some days it was pennies and nickels from his allowance. Some days it was only a few cents. Each time he asked an employee to load the same card because he was saving it for his teacher. The staff watched the balance rise coin by coin. They understood he was choosing the card over whatever a child that age usually buys with leftover money.