My son was three. I took him to a fast-food restaurant in a nearby town to let him play on their indoor playground after we ate. I sat on a bench and watched. He had climbed halfway up a net that led to a circular slide and stopped. He began to cry. I asked him why he was crying. He said he was afraid.

I crawled through the maze of tubes and cubbies that formed the lower section to the netting and sat down beside him. I held his hand. We talked as children climbed past us with smiles on their faces. I pointed out that he’d already climbed halfway. Soon he left me sitting alone. I retreated back the way I came, moving against the current, and reclaimed my position on the bench.

Twenty minutes later another three year old boy stopped halfway up the net and began to cry. His father also came around to see the problem, then began screaming at the boy. My son stopped at the base of the net and looked at me. Other children continued climbing past them. My son climbed the net and stopped beside the boy, just as I had. The man stopped screaming.

My son held his hand and talked to him. After a minute they turned and climbed together. The boy exited the slide with a smile on his face. His father was waiting. “We’re leaving,” is all he said. My son came to stand beside me as his father put on his shoes, picked him up, and left.