Ernesto was from Salvador. He was in his late thirties but it was hard to tell from looking at him, he was so thin and weak. He had great difficulty walking and his life was more or less circumscribed by his modest and rather gloomy apartment. I put his meal in the fridge, we chatted, I filled out my forms and asked if there was anything else I could do for him. His eyes brightened and he asked for one favor. Down the block, on the corner, was a pancake house that he used to visit every day. But now it was too hard to walk there and back and he missed it. Could I drive him there?

“Of course I can, but how will you get back?”

“I can do that. I hold on to the railings as I walk. It’s OK in one direction. I just need to get there”.

“OK, let’s go.”

It took him a long time to pull on his pants and I realized how the simplest tasks become complicated. I helped him on with his jacket and he was finally ready. I supported him as he hobbled out to the car and we drove down to the corner. He smiled at the colorful sight of his old haunt, the pancake house and I settled him at the counter in the coffee shop. The waiter, surprised and pleased to see him, brought him coffee. Ernesto asked if I wanted to join him but I explained that I was already running very late for my next clients.  I made sure he was OK and had everything he needed, and I left.

Back in my car in the parking lot, writing up my report, I didn’t notice an ice-cream truck pull up at the curb. But I heard it. The tune made me look up, and I saw Ernesto inside the restaurant hunched over his pancakes. The music did it – the tinkling strains of It’s a Small, Small World. And there, in the parking lot of the pancake house, anyone looking into my car would probably have been surprised to see a grown man cry.