the kind of person whose compassion could move mountains. Gloria wasn’t just passing by; she was a social worker with a history of advocating for children and teens in precarious situations. She knew the signs, the little signals that something was terribly wrong. When she saw me lying there, half-buried in the wet gravel, she didn’t just see a cold, unconscious girl. She saw a child in need, a victim of circumstances that shouldn’t have existed in the first place.
Gloria didn’t hesitate. She wrapped me in the warmest blanket she had in her car, all the while talking to me, trying to coax me back to consciousness. Her voice was tender yet firm, carrying the weight of many years spent fighting for those who couldn’t fight for themselves.
When I came to, I was in a hospital bed, with a symphony of beeping machines around me. My fingers felt heavy, encased in warmth, a stark contrast to the cold numbness I had felt earlier. Gloria was there, her eyes kind but serious, and I felt a strange sense of safety in her presence.
