It was an ordinary afternoon until I spotted a barefoot little boy on the scorching asphalt, frantically pounding on a black car. No adults were around; only his sobs pierced the parking lot.
His face was red, his body trembling. He tugged at my arm, pointing at the fogged window.
“Where’s your mom or dad?” I asked, but he shook his head, crying harder.
I pressed against the glass. Through a small clear patch, I froze: slumped across the front seat was a woman—his mother—motionless, groceries scattered beside her.
Adrenaline surged. I held the boy and called 911. “A child outside, mother unconscious inside, grocery parking lot on 6th and Maple,” I said, my voice shaking.
Sirens came moments later. Firefighters pried open the door. Paramedics checked her pulse. Finally, one nodded: “She’s breathing. We’ve got her.”
The boy’s sobs softened as he reached for her hand. Relief washed over me—ordinary life had turned into a crisis in seconds, but help had arrived in time.