Fatima’s only concern was to save the boy and disappear before anyone spotted her or found out anything that would send her back to the place she had fled. This was the rule she had set for herself after spending three weeks on the streets of Cairo: do good and run fast before anyone catches you. Keep your name short, hide your pockets, and never let an adult look at you too much; because kindness from adults always comes with questions, paperwork, and iron doors that close slowly until you find yourself locked up! At the age of seven, Fatima knew exactly which sidewalks offered warmth, which restaurants threw away leftover fresh bread after closing, which alleys had surveillance cameras, and which people smiled with frighteningly fake faces. The November weather had turned Al-Azhar Garden into a gray, shivering place; the trees were bare, the walkways were littered with withered leaves, and the wind whistled between the branches with a frightening rustling sound. Fatima had gone deep into the garden, looking for a potato cart she knew near the gate, but the cart wasn’t there, and it was early night. Her stomach began to ache with hunger; the same old, irritating ache she’d grown accustomed to and that no longer surprised her. Suddenly, she heard a groan! It wasn’t a loud groan; The loud voices of people who believed the world would hear and rescue them, but that voice was thin and faint, and the rain and wind were about to drown it out. Help me… Fatima stopped suddenly, so much so that her old, torn shoes slipped on the leaves. The first thing that came to her was to run. Problems always start like that, and the problem might appear in the form of someone weaker than you calling out to you. And as soon as you get close, you find hands grabbing you, a police van, and older people saying, “We’re here to help you!” She looked at the walkway that leads out of the garden and saw nothing but darkness stretching its legs on the ground. Please… This time, the voice cracked in the middle. Fatima closed her hands inside the sleeves of her worn jacket. My grandmother, may God have mercy on her, always told her that her heart was bigger than her small body, and that this kindness would one day hurt her. Fatima didn’t understand her words back then, but now she understood perfectly! Kindness hurts when you share your bread and remain hungry. Kindness hurts when you tell the truth and no one believes you. Kindness hurts when it brings you close to the powerful until they only notice you exist! But the voice was that of a small child, so Fatima walked towards it. She took a step forward and then a step back, searching first among the trees, then under the chairs, until she found a boy lying on the cold ground next to a drain. He was about her age or a little taller, wearing an expensive, clean navy blue puffer jacket, but the mud was a mess beside him. His hair was neatly combed and damp with sweat, and his lips were a pale blue. A few steps away, two iron crutches lay scattered on the ground among the leaves, as if they had slipped from his hand when he fell! The boy looked up as soon as he saw her, his eyes filled with tears, but what truly terrified Fatima was his tired appearance and the worry in his eyes. “Please…” Fatima didn’t approach him right away. “Is someone with you?” The boy shook his head no. “There’s someone hiding behind me.”