It was six fifteen at night in the middle of the streets of Cairo, and Dunia, the nine-year-old girl, took off the only winter jacket she owned in the world and gently put it on the shoulders of an old man who was shivering from the cold in front of a closed pharmacy. Her mother gasped in shock, and the old man wept bitterly. Inside the luxurious black Jeep circling the other sidewalk, Murad al-Salhadar—the man whose name half the city feared and the other half pretended not to know—froze in place, time standing still for him. For a few seconds, no one in the street moved. A light rain fell beneath the lamppost like cut leaves, and the wind was fierce, stinging the face and taking the breath away. Najwa stood on the sidewalk, holding the bag of vegetables in one hand and her daughter’s hand in the other, staring in astonishment at the pink jacket now draped over the shoulders of a stranger. Najwa whispered in terror, “Dunya! My daughter, what have you done?” The old man had been sitting on a wooden bench in front of the pharmacy, a bench no one would sit on in winter because it was always exposed to the wind. He looked well over seventy. His plaid shirt was so worn from the elbows that his exposed skin was blue from the cold, and his hands trembled on his knees. Next to his old shoes sat a paper cup containing a few silver coins. He wasn’t begging, nor had he asked anyone for anything. He was simply sitting in the bitter cold, enduring the harshness of the world like a man who had lost all hope of help and had no one left to turn to. Dunia looked young for her age, her hair disheveled and peeping out from under a navy wool hat. She suddenly stopped walking. Najwa felt the sharpness of her hand and turned to find her daughter staring at the old man with a look so heavy and uncharacteristic of a young girl. In a flash, Dunia unzipped her jacket and took it off. She stood in her light house clothes, her cheeks flushed and her lips trembling from the cold and her stubbornness. She said to the man in a low voice, “You need him more than I do.” She said it innocently, not like a child waiting for praise or trying to be funny, but like a child who saw two people in the cold and decided that the immobile man needed warmth more than the girl who could still walk. The old man looked at her, his eyes brimming with tears, and said, “I can’t take your jacket, my dear.” Donia immediately replied, “It’s okay, Uncle… Mama walks fast.” Najwa’s throat ached at the words; they really did walk fast, they ran everywhere because the bus never came on time.