At midnight, a barefoot child approached my motorcycle, clutching a small bag of quarters and begging me to buy baby formula. She couldn’t have been more than six, wearing a dirty nightgown, eyes wide with fear, standing alone at a 24-hour gas station. I had just finished a long ride, but her urgency stopped me.

“Please, mister,” she whispered. “My baby brother hasn’t eaten since yesterday. They won’t sell to kids.” Her tiny frame trembled in the cold. When I asked where her parents were, she glanced at a van in the shadows. “Sleeping… been tired for three days.” My blood ran cold.

Inside the store, I gathered formula, bottles, water, and ready-to-eat food. Returning to her, I handed everything over. She led me to the van. Inside, a weak, malnourished baby lay on dirty blankets while two adults were unconscious, needles nearby.