His name was Jason*, and he was four feet of willful energy. He, his sister, and his parents were residents in the homeless family shelter where I volunteer. My job was to read to the children, or play with them, and then help make 65 bag lunches for the next day.

A recent arrival, this eight-year-old was the type of child whom it becomes easy to resent. He charged toward other children, grabbing crayons and markers away. He boisterously demanded his wishes be met. He threw small toys. He ran and shouted despite being asked, and then told, not to do so. He incited other children to misbehave or agitated them to the point of anger or tears. He pushed other kids. He was unruly and disrepectful. He his behavior was not, to my eyes, endearing.

One little girl had a temporary heart-shaped tattoo made of shiny sparkles on clear tape. Jason saw it and demanded to have one too. He wanted hers; she refused. I think he might have tried to take it if I hadn’t suggested we get him one of his own. We found the volunteer who had given out the others. She opened the box, revealing Jason’s choices. Did he want a star, a dragonfly, a zigzag? No! No! He wanted the tattoo made of pink sparkles that said: LOVE.

Each letter was separate. She asked Jason where he wanted them. He pointed to his left arm, and she affixed the L. She was about to put the O next to it, but he stopped her. He wanted it on his face. “Where?” she asked, “On your cheek?”

“No, put it on my chin,” was his reply. “Are you sure? It would look better on your cheek,” she offered. Jason insisted, and so the O went on his chin. The V was placed on the back of his right hand, with the E landing on his leg. He beamed.

Another girl came in and requested a tattoo. As Jason passed her to leave, he touched his hand to her back and said to me, “She loves me!” Her response was emphatic. “No I DO NOT LOVE HIM!” He ran and she chased him. I followed to supervise, and he raced toward me with a brown magic marker and a sheet of notebook paper. “How do you spell love?” he asked. Telling him he was wearing the word didn’t matter. He wanted me to write it, so I wrote in large block letters, LOVE.

He then ran around laughing and showing that piece of paper to everyone. He held it up to the nursery window where the very little children played with caregivers. He showed it to the older kids in the computer room. He ran up to the program supervisor and proudly thrust it at her, saying, “Look! Look what I’ve got!” She smiled indulgently.

And here I’d been steeled against him at the beginning, resenting his behavior. I’d been tempted to interpret his character by it. If anything, Jason especially needed love.

[*named changed to protect identity]