Dying boy's lemonade stand was empty until bikers saw what his sign really said underneath "50 cents." Seven-year-old Tyler sat behind his little folding table for three hours without a single customer, his bald head covered by a yellow baseball cap, his thin hands shaking as he rearranged his cups over and over. The neighborhood had been avoiding him for weeks, ever since word got out that his câncér was terminal. I watched from my porch as cars slowed down, saw him, and sped up again. Parents