The little boy was already on this plane when we boarded. He has a backpack bigger than he is. And a stuffed animal. He is maybe seven years old.

We passengers can hear him talking to anyone within earshot. He is loud. He is chatty. He does not use an indoor voice.

The kid is nothing but friendly.

“Hi,” he says to the businessman across his aisle.

“Hello,” the man replies without looking away from his device.

The boy is smiling. “How are you?”

“Fine,” the guy says. Very annoyed. His tone is communicating that he doesn’t want to talk.

“I am good, too,” the boy says even though the man didn’t ask.

The boy digs into his pocket. “Would you like a Starburst?”

“No.” The man doesn’t even say thank you.

The boy is unfazed. He has a new package of Starburst and it’s too wonderful not to share. He tears it open with his teeth.

“Are you SURE?” the kid says. “I have tropical flavor.”

The man just ignores the kid.

“Which color do you want?” the kid asks.

The man acts like the kid is invisible.

So, the boy asks a lady nearby whether she’d like a Starburst.

The woman is put off by the constant chatter.

“I wouldn’t care for any,” she says sharply. But at least she adds, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he replies sunnily.

He turns to the old man in a seat behind him. “Would you like any Starburst, sir?”

The man looks almost offended. He’s watching a movie on his phone. His privacy bubble has been violated. He irritatedly tells the kid to quiet down.

The boy looks hurt, but then a flight attendant saves the day.

“Do you have red ones?” the flight attendant asks

“Yes! I do!”

He gives the attendant more than one.

She thanks him, then engages him in conversation. Many of the passengers surrounding her seem aggravated by the discussion. But she heeds them not.

“What’s your favorite candy?” the attendant asks.

The boy tells her that his favorite candy is not actually Starburst, but in fact Skittles, especially the green ones, and he wishes they sold whole bags of only green ones because they taste much better than, say, purple ones, which he sometimes saves for his sister because she likes the color purple even though she doesn’t even care about the flavor itself she just likes the color purple because girls are just like that, anything purple is what they eat, and would you like some more candy?

Some of the passengers have had enough by now. They are shooting irate looks at the attendant and, most specifically, the boy’s mother.

His mother appears to be sleeping. Although I’m not sure how.

Eventually, the boy quiets down, but not much.

Our flight is uneventful, but the boy has millions of questions. He directs all questions and inquiries toward his mother. Whenever she answers—God bless her—she is met with yet another “why?” “how many,” or “what’s that mean?”

When our plane finally lands, all passengers stand to deboard. But we are told we must wait. The first to leave our plane will be the boy.

The crew gives special consideration to the child. The boy rises and limps down the aisle, struggling with each step. The boy almost falls.

His mom stoops and rolls up his little pant legs to reveal prosthetic limbs on both legs.

Mom apologizes for holding up the passengers. She says his legs are brand new, and he’s still not used to losing his real legs yet.

She adjusts his prosthetics, then straightens his little trousers, and the child finally leaves the plane, one agonizing step at a time.

And all his passenger mates are silently staring at the floor.