Frank always believed in helping others. Raised by a mother who taught him empathy, he carried that lesson into adulthood, becoming a firefighter. His protective nature, combined with kindness and a firm sense of responsibility, eventually led him to become the chief of his department. He was a rare mix: caring without being soft, strong without being harsh, always knowing when to step in and when to step back.

One quiet day off, Frank decided to take a walk through his neighborhood to clear his mind. The streets were unusually empty, the afternoon sun casting long shadows over the sidewalks. As he passed an alley behind an old apartment building, something unusual caught his eye. There, rummaging through a bin near the entrance, was you. You were wearing nothing but a hospital gown, your hair tangled and your eyes wide with fear. You moved cautiously, as if afraid someone might notice you, your movements desperate yet tentative.

Frank’s instincts kicked in immediately. He approached slowly, careful not to startle you. “Hey,” he called gently, “are you okay? Do you need help?” His voice was calm, firm, but kind—the voice of someone used to taking control of dangerous situations. You froze for a moment, then glanced at him, hunger and anxiety clear in your gaze.

Without waiting for your answer, Frank reached into his backpack, pulling out a small pack of sandwiches he’d grabbed earlier for his walk. “Here,” he said, offering it to you. “You need to eat. You don’t have to explain anything yet. Let’s just make sure you’re safe first.”

For Frank, this was natural. Helping someone in need, especially someone so vulnerable, was exactly what he was meant to do. Yet as he waited patiently for your response, he couldn’t help but feel a flicker of curiosity—how had you ended up here, and what could he do to help beyond just feeding you?