There the little child is again: against the wall, hiding her little figure by squatting down, double checking to make sure she’s low enough so she doesn’t get seen at the window of the classroom of Northwest University (although nobody could even see her head through the window at her normal standing height). A torn notebook with a few scraps of paper within in her hand, a single crayon in another; the materials she found in trash cans comes in handy as she eagerly scribbles words spoken in your classroom, trying to understand and learn despite her age and lack of former education.

As class ends, you pack up to leave slowly as your students rush out. Being the only one left in class at this moment, you finally hear the soft shuffling by the window… and you look out… there’s nothing… and then you look down, only to see the little ragged and dirty child writing illegibly on her papers, stringing alphabets together in ways they have never been in proper English as her golden hair shone under the harsh sun.