Jonathan stepped out into humid air thick with exhaust and damp concrete. His polished shoes sank into mud as he walked toward the skeletal building. Then he saw her.
A little girl, maybe six, crouched in a corner where sheets of metal leaned together. Her hair was tangled, her clothes streaked with soot. In her lap lay a bundle of gray rags. From it, a tiny hand reached out, trembling.
The baby made a thin, fragile sound—not quite a cry, more like surrender.
The girl wasn’t afraid. She was guarding.
“Are you alone?” Jonathan asked, his voice cracking in a way it never did in boardrooms.
She said nothing.
“Where’s your mother?”
Her lip curled in warning. She shifted, protecting the infant.
Jonathan slowly lowered himself to his knees, mud soaking through his trousers. He raised his hands, palms open. “My name is Jonathan. I’m not here to hurt you.”
She studied him carefully. “Everyone says that before they take things.”
The words pierced him.
“I don’t want to take anything,” he whispered. “I want to help.”
“We’re waiting for Elena,” she said.
“Who’s Elena?”
“She went to get bread. Yesterday.”