The snow had fallen all night, heavy and unforgiving, burying my quiet Ohio street under nearly a foot of white. At 68, with knees that complained at every step, I wasn’t in the mood for surprises. When the doorbell rang that early, my first instinct was irritation. I expected trouble, or worse, a pushy salesperson ignoring the weather. Instead, I opened the door to two shivering boys, maybe twelve and fourteen, gripping snow shovels and trying to stand tall despite the cold biting through their thin jackets.
They looked exhausted already. One shovel’s handle was held together with duct tape, the metal edge worn smooth from years of use. The older boy spoke first, his voice shaking just slightly as he asked if they could shovel my driveway and walk. I followed his gaze to the long stretch of concrete disappearing under snow. This wasn’t a quick favor—it was hours of brutal labor in freezing temperatures. When I asked how much, they exchanged a glance before naming a number so low it almost made me laugh.