I reached for my wallet. I pulled out sixty dollars, double what we had agreed. Then I thought of their hours, their care, their dignity. I added another sixty. Then another.
I handed them one hundred and eighty dollars.
The older boy’s eyes widened in shock.
“Sir, that is too much,” he said quickly. “We said thirty.”
I crouched in front of them so we were eye to eye.
“You gave me professional work,” I said. “You did not rush. You did not cheat. You did it with care. That deserves fair pay.”
The younger boy clutched the bills in both hands, as if afraid they might vanish. His fingers trembled.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
I nodded. “What are your names.”
“I am Jordan,” the older boy said.
“And I am Tyler,” the younger one added.
“Well Jordan and Tyler,” I said, “promise me something. Never sell your work too cheaply. People will always try to pay you less. Do not be the first person to undervalue yourself.”
They listened with solemn seriousness far beyond their years.
When they left, pushing their cart down the street, I heard them talking excitedly about taking groceries home and fixing a broken window. Not about toys. Not about games. About survival.