Alex stood in the dimly lit living room, the stale air heavy with the scent of old smoke and something sour. He tried to focus on the adults in front of him—worn faces with hollow eyes, each with their own story of addiction and neglect. As they talked, his eyes drifted around the room, catching the clutter and chaos, searching for signs of a child.

That’s when he saw him—a small, skinny boy crouched behind the tattered couch, barely visible in the shadows. His heart skipped. The boy couldn’t have been older than seven, with wide, fearful eyes peeking out from under messy hair. Bandages covered his thin arms and legs, some of them fresh, others old and dirty, and he seemed to shrink further when he realized Alex had noticed him.

The conversation around Alex faded into a distant buzz. He crouched down slowly, careful not to move too fast, his eyes never leaving the boy. A soft, reassuring smile touched his lips, even though his chest tightened at the sight.

“Hey there,” he said gently, voice barely above a whisper. The boy didn’t respond, just stared at him with that hollow, wide-eyed gaze. A thousand questions ran through Alex’s mind, but he held them back, knowing this moment needed patience, not pressure.

“Are you okay?” he asked softly, but the boy didn’t move, frozen like a deer caught in headlights.

Alex reached out a hand, palm open and inviting, and waited, hoping that somehow, in the sea of chaos, he could be a lifeline.