But her legs trembled. She pressed her lips together like she was holding back tears.
I hit the intercom.
“Yes?”
She startled. “Good afternoon, sir. I’m sorry to bother you. My name is Isabella.”
Her voice was soft but steady—the kind of brave politeness kids learn when they’ve had to grow up too fast.
“I’m selling oranges. They’re sweet, I promise. Five for three dollars. I’m… I’m trying to help buy my mom’s medicine.”
You hear stories like that every day in this city. But this didn’t sound rehearsed. It sounded exhausted.
“Stay there,” I said.
I stepped outside. The heat wrapped around me instantly. When the gate slid open, she looked up with cautious hope.
“How much for all of them?” I asked.
Her eyes widened. “All of them? Sir, I… I don’t have change if it’s a big bill.”
I pulled a hundred from my wallet. “Keep it.”
Her fingers shook as she took it. Tears pooled instantly. “Thank you. I swear they’re good.”
I noticed how pale she was.
“When did you last eat?” I asked.
She hesitated. “It’s okay. I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine.” I opened the gate wider. “Come inside. You need water.”
She stepped through carefully, like she was crossing into another world.