The alley was already suffocating under the late-morning heat when Jalen, an eight-year-old street kid, dragged himself through it with a sack of scrap nearly bigger than his body. His shirt was ripped, clinging to his thin back with sweat. His pants were torn at the knees. His feet were bare, cracked, and dirty.
His stomach burned with hunger—but hunger was normal. Hunger was constant. Hunger was the one thing that never abandoned him.
Jalen survived by collecting bottles, metal, anything he could trade for a few coins. That morning had already crushed him. A junk dealer cursed him out and threw trash at his feet. A man shoved him off the curb. A shop owner slapped his hand for standing too close.
No one saw a child. They saw a problem.
Jalen didn’t cry. Crying never helped.
Then he froze.
A sound sliced through the alley—sharp, desperate, panicked.
A baby crying.
Jalen’s shoulders stiffened. Babies didn’t belong here. Poor families lived far away. Rich families never entered alleys like this.
The cry came again—louder, terrified.
Jalen dropped his sack and followed the sound behind a cracked concrete wall.
And stopped cold.