That morning had begun like any other. I left the city clinic early, the last of my morning patients seen, the heat already pressing down like a heavy white sheet over the sky.
The sun bounced off the asphalt so fiercely it stung my eyes. I took the old highway that connects the capital to the southern towns—a road I knew so well I could drive it almost without thinking. All I had to do was keep going straight, and eventually I would be home.
Near the bridge, something made me slow down. By a lamppost, two elderly figures sat close together, as if trying to shield one another from the blazing sun. An older woman in a faded blue dress sat beside a thin man in a straw hat. Around them were a couple of worn canvas bags and a small, battered suitcase.
No one should ever leave their parents sitting under a merciless sky like that.
I pulled over. Dust rose beneath my shoes as I approached. The woman’s eyes were swollen and red; dried tear tracks marked her cheeks. The man stared at the road as if answers might rise from the shimmering pavement.
“Good morning,” I said gently. “Are you alright? Can I help you?”