“Help,” he rasped. “Please.”

Tasha hesitated.

She didn’t know him. He looked expensive—shiny shoes, gold watch, silk tie crumpled around his neck—but something about him looked… broken.

Most kids her age might’ve run.

But Tasha wasn’t most kids.

She crept closer. “Mister… what happened?”

“I—I think I was robbed,” he whispered. “They took my wallet… phone… my chest hurts…”

Tasha’s mind raced. She didn’t have a phone. But she knew where the corner store was—three blocks up. If she ran fast, she could get Mr. Coleman, the owner, to call 911.

“Wait here,” she said breathlessly. “I’ll get help.”