He froze. His heart pounded. He looked back — a parking lot. Almost empty. And there, in the shade under a dried-up tree — a car. An expensive foreign make. Dark tinted windows. The sound came from there.

He slowly approached. His steps felt heavy in his chest. Fogged windows. And inside… yes, there was a child. A boy. About a year old, no more. His cheeks were flushed, eyes half-closed, lips cracked from thirst.

Oliver yanked at the door. Locked. He went around — still locked.

“Someone! HELP!” he shouted. No one came.

Then he saw a stone by the curb. A voice in his head said: “You can’t. It’s a crime.” But his gaze fell again on the child.
Oliver grabbed the stone and smashed the glass.