A Cry for Help
As he dashed across the street, something caught his eye. A gray car was parked by the curb. Inside, on the passenger seat, sat a small child—no older than his little brother. The child was crying, pounding weakly against the window, his voice hoarse from shouting for help. His cheeks were flushed, and his breath came in short, uneven gasps. The heat inside the car looked unbearable.
The boy froze. Two thoughts battled in his mind: the fear of being late again—and the fear for this helpless child who seemed to be fading before his eyes. Then he pictured his own brother in that seat. What if that were my brother and no one helped him?
Without another moment’s hesitation, he grabbed a heavy stone from the ground and struck the window with all his strength. The glass shattered, and the car alarm blared through the street. Reaching inside, he carefully pulled the trembling child out into the open air.
Moments later, a woman came running toward them, her face streaked with tears. She scooped her son into her arms, shaking with relief. The boy quickly explained what had happened. The woman hugged her child tightly and thanked him over and over.
The boy just wiped his dusty hands on his shirt, let out a small sigh, and started back toward school—his mind racing to figure out what he would tell his teacher.
