My elderly neighbor, Mr. Dalen, asked me to buy a few plastic chairs—the kind with holes in the middle. I couldn’t find those exact ones, so I brought home the regular kind. He thanked me, but I could tell something was wrong. I brushed it off at first. After all, they were just chairs. But Mr. Dalen wasn’t someone who fussed over nothing. He was in his late 70s, quiet, still wearing the same fishing hat even though he didn’t fish anymore.
