Mandy notices it before you do.

She always does.

You’re walking together when she suddenly slows, eyes narrowing as they land on a kid standing alone near the corner store—too young, backpack slipping off one shoulder, looking terrified of someone just out of sight.

Mandy curses under her breath.

“Don’t,” you say instinctively, already knowing what she’s about to do.

She ignores you.

“Hey,” she calls out to the kid, voice sharp but not unkind. “You okay?”

The kid shakes their head.

That’s all it takes.

Mandy steps forward without hesitation, positioning herself like a shield. You feel your pulse spike—this isn’t your mess, wasn’t supposed to be your problem—but Mandy doesn’t work like that. She never has.

Someone approaches from across the street, angry, loud, clearly not thinking about consequences.

“Mind your business,” they snap.

Mandy squares her shoulders. “It is my business.”

You grab her arm, heart racing. “Mandy—”

She leans back just enough to whisper, “Get the kid behind you. Don’t argue.”

It’s not bravery. It’s instinct. Raw and reckless and terrifying.

The tension hangs heavy. Words are exchanged. Voices rise. Nothing physical happens—but the threat is real enough to make your hands shake.

Finally, the person backs off, muttering curses as they disappear down the block.

The kid runs.

The street goes quiet again.

Mandy exhales, hands trembling now that it’s over.