The pharmacist dropped to his knees beside the little girl.

Her lips were pale, her small chest barely moving, and the boy stood frozen beside her, holding the wet prescription like a prayer.

“Please,” he whispered. “Mom said this medicine works.”

The pharmacist looked at the paper again.

The handwriting was shaky, but clear.

Emergency inhaler.

Immediate use.

No delay.

His face broke when he saw the mother’s name at the bottom.

He knew that name.

She was the woman who had come in two hours earlier begging for medicine and left crying when she couldn’t pay.

The rich woman stood in the doorway, still holding the blinds, silent now.

The pharmacist ran inside, grabbed the medicine from the shelf, and came back so fast the bottle almost slipped from his trembling hands.

The boy held his sister’s head while the pharmacist helped her breathe.

One second.

Nothing.

Another second.

Then the little girl coughed.

A thin breath entered her chest.

The boy collapsed beside her, sobbing with relief.

The pharmacist covered his mouth, tears filling his eyes.

“I should have helped your mom,” he whispered.

The boy looked up at him, soaked and shaking.

“She said people get tired of poor kids asking.”

The pharmacist gently placed the medicine in his hand.

“Not here,” he said. “Not anymore.”

Behind them, the rich woman slowly lowered her eyes as the rain washed across the glass door she had tried to close.