POSTAGE    The attendant stared down at the clumsily wrapped brown, paper package, the names and addresses scrawled on it in red crayon. Tape was plastered liberally on all sides and, here and there, it stuck out at uneven angles, the exposed edges rimmed with brown. The clerk then placed both hands on the counter and leaned himself forward to look down at the small, sandy-haired boy peering up at him from the other side.    "You want to send this to Canada?" he asked in a nasal voice, raising an eyebrow.    The boy nodded solemnly.    "It's for my momma," he explained. "She's sick and pappa said we couldn't go see her yet and so I'm sending her this to help her feel better."    The clerk's gaze became suspicious as he eyed the package once more.    "What's in it?" he asked.    The boy's eyes reflected anxiety.    "You won't tell her, will you? It's supposed to be a surprise."    Impatiently, the clerk snapped. "No. I just need to know what's inside."    The boy then looked proudly at the box.    "It's a book I made for her. It tells a story about--"    "Yes, yes," the clerk interupted. "Very well."    He proceeded to weigh the package and calculate the POSTAGE price.    "That will be seven dollars and forty-three cents," he intoned and here the corners of his mouth twitched slightly. He sincerely doubted that the small boy would be able to pay the fee for airmail shipping.    Indeed, the child stood silent for a moment, as if thinking hard, before reaching a grubby hand into his pocket and withdrawing a fistful of pennies, nickels, dimes and a few shiny quarters. Standing on his toes, he reached up and let the money clatter onto the counter along with a bubble-gum wrapper and some pocket lint. The clerk needed only to eyeball the money to know it was not enough. He smirked and shook his head.    "I'm afraid that's not going to be enough," he warbled.    Again, the boy stretched up to peer at the money on the counter. He was silent for a moment.    "Well, if you don't have the money, please move along!" the clerk barked. "You're holding up the line."    The boy looked at the money and then looked up at the beady-eyed man. He drew a breath.    "Are you sure?" he asked in a small voice.    The clerk narrowed his eyes and opened his mouth to tell the boy off once and for all, but didn't get a chance because a deeper, much kinder voice cut him off.    "I'll get it, son."    A salon-tanned hand adorned with a large gold ring and tipped with perfectly manicured nails appeared and slid a twenty across the counter.

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