“I just wanted to say thank you,” he said. “From a father to a stranger”

IT

was the kind of upstate summer day that’s equal parts sticky and slow-moving, when even errands feel like an outing. I was in a bakery — the kind that stocks everything from artisan sourdough to oversized rainbow cookies — and though the line wasn’t particularly long, the place felt full-to-bursting with a crowd of camp girls who had arrived en masse.

They were everywhere — a sea of burgundy polos, crisp white sneakers, and belt bags around their waists like a uniform of cheerful independence. Matching hair bows bobbed as they bounced between the cookie counter and the fridges, laughing, pointing, deciding. It was a sea of youthful chatter and coordinated cotton.

One girl — a bit younger, with a hopeful look — came up to me and asked if she could use my phone to call her parents. I handed it to her.

She tried her father first. No answer.