Barry turned eight today. I wanted to make it special, but special costs money, and money is something we just don’t have right now.

Still, I scraped together enough for a small dinner at the local diner. Nothing fancy—just burgers and fries. He didn’t complain. He never does.

When the waitress asked if we wanted dessert, I glanced at the menu, my stomach knotting at the prices. Barry noticed. Before I could say anything, he shook his head. “I’m full,” he said quickly.

I knew he wasn’t.

That’s when the man at the next table spoke up. “Excuse me, ma’am.”

I looked up. He wore a ranger’s uniform, his badge catching the light. J.M. Timmons, it read.

He smiled. “Mind if I get the birthday boy some cake?”

I hesitated, my pride fighting with my reality. But before I could answer, Barry surprised us both.

“No, thank you, sir.” His voice was polite but firm.

Timmons raised an eyebrow. “You sure, kid? It’s your birthday.”

Barry nodded, pressing his lips together. “I wanna save the wish.”

Silence hung between us.

“The wish?” the ranger asked gently.

Barry glanced at me before looking down. “Last year, I wished for a bike,” he mumbled. “Didn’t get one.” He swallowed. “This year, I wanna wait until I know it’ll come true.”