I was raised in a foster home. I don't have many memories from the time I spent with

my biological parents, but I know they seriously mistreated us. Both me and my sister were

both severely most nourished when the state took us in, and it's done to their growth

pretty bad. My sister is about 5 feet tall and I am a batting in shorter. Being raised

in a foster home, I was taught just how important it is to be mindful of others and care for

those less fortunate. I spent most of my adult life working with various charities. I also

work as a nurse at a private hospital, and I spend most of my days providing palliative

care. I hate to sound braggie, but I think I can safely say that I am pulling my own

weight. I care. That's what I do. So it's no wonder that once in a while, I care more

than I should. I was coming home from work. It was a pretty late Thursday and most shops

are closed, apart from a single convenience store. I bought myself a salad and a diet coke

and followed the main street for about a block. I usually walk two and from work. With

the most shops closed, the place is a ghost town. Most bars and clubs are on a different

street, but who goes clubbing on a Thursday anyway? No, apart from an older woman walking

a dog, I was alone. I don't mind. I'd walk this street a thousand times. There's a fork

in the road where they've put up pedestrian lights, four roads meet, and is by far the

most infuriating intersection in town. As I rounded the corner, I saw someone standing

there pressing the cross button. It was a kid. It wouldn't matter how many times he pressed

a button to cross, the light was broken, but he just stood there, crying, pressing the

button. There was a single car on the road, but you know how kids are. He was about seven

years old, with Asian features and a pale complexion. His eyes were red from crying, and he

was shivering. He was mid-February, and there were still plenty of snow outside, yet he looked

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