Malcolm reminded me of my time working at Franklin Elementary School in South Seattle during the late seventies when I was a teenager. He had been a hungry ten year old boy living in poverty whose mother had abandoned him, and I had quietly slipped him a lunch ticket every day from my own meager earnings. He revealed that he had kept that tattered yellow cardboard ticket hidden in his shoe for forty six years as a reminder that someone in the world cared about him. He shared how he was eventually adopted by a loving family, attended medical school, and worked his way up to owning four major medical facilities across the Pacific Northwest, including the very hospital where I was recovering. Inspired by my old kindness, he had established a permanent program to ensure no
child visiting his hospitals would ever go without a meal. I was completely overwhelmed to realize that the little boy in the oversized plaid shirt had grown into such a successful and compassionate man, and that a simple forty cent meal could leave such a lasting legacy of gratitude.
