At midnight, a barefoot little girl approached my motorcycle. She held a plastic bag containing a large number of coins, and she begged me to buy formula milk for her younger brother.

She looked no more than six years old. She stood at a 24-hour petrol pump on the Delhi-Agra highway, wearing a dirty princess nightie. Her tears streaked her dirty face, and she clutched the bag of coins to her chest as if it were years of savings.

I had stopped to refuel after traveling nearly six hundred kilometers. I was exhausted and just wanted to get home. But the girl was trembling, pushing the bag toward me—me, a heavyset, bearded, tattooed man in a leather jacket—while ignoring the well-dressed couple standing two pumps ahead.

“Please, sir…” he whispered, his eyes fixed on a dilapidated van parked in the darkest corner of the petrol station. “My little brother has been hungry since yesterday. They don’t sell milk to a child… but you… you’ll understand.”

I looked at the van, then at his bare feet frozen on the cold cement, then at the shop window where the salesman was eyeing us both suspiciously. I understood clearly—something was very wrong.

“Where are your parents?” I asked, bending down despite the pain in my knees.

His gaze went back to the van.

“They’re sleeping. They’re… tired. Very tired for three days…”

Three days. A shiver ran through my body. I knew all too well what that meant—in the world that had forced me to quit drugs fifteen years ago.

“Son, what’s your name?”

“Anaya… please, milk… Aarav is crying so much… I don’t know what to do…”

I slowly stood up. The decision had been made.

“Anaya, I’ll get you milk. But you’ll wait by my bike, okay?”

She nodded vigorously and tried to hand me the bundle of coins. I didn’t take it.

“Keep this money with you. I’ll pay for it.”

I went into the store. I picked up formula milk, bottles, water, and as much uncooked food as I could. The teenage boy standing at the counter looked nervous.

“Has that girl come here before?” I asked softly.

“For the last three nights…” she said. “Each time with different people… asking for milk. Yesterday she tried to buy it herself, but according to the rules…”

“You really turned away a girl who wanted to buy milk for a baby?” My voice became heavy.

“I called Child Protection…” he mumbled. “They said that without a name, without an address… they can’t do anything.”

I threw the note and came out without waiting for change.

Anaya was still near the bike, but now swaying slightly with fatigue.

“When did you last eat?” I asked.

“Maybe… Tuesday. Or Monday. I gave the last biscuits to Aarav.”

It was Thursday night—actually, it was about to be Friday morning.

I handed him the milk and the rest of the supplies.

“Where is Aarav?”

His gaze went back to the van. A clear struggle was visible on his face.

“I… I’ve been told not to tell strangers anything…”

“Anaya, my name is Ravi,” I said. “I was a fireman for many years. Now I’m in the Red Helmet Brotherhood. We help children—that’s our job.”

I showed her the patch on my jacket—a fire helmet, wings on the back, and the words: “Protect the Weakest.”

“I think you and Aarav—both need help.”

She suddenly burst into tears. Her small body shook with sobs.

“He just won’t wake up…” she said through hiccups. “I tried… a lot… but he won’t wake up… and Aarav is hungry… I don’t know what to do…”

My worst fears came true. I took out my phone and called the president of our brotherhood—whom we all call “Lion.”

“Brother, you and Kira must immediately get to the highway gas station—the one outside the city. Right now. Get a van.”

“What happened?”
“The children are in danger. I suspect an overdose. Get there quickly.”

I then called the emergency services and reported a medical emergency, then returned to Anaya.

“Anaya, I need to check on Aarav. My friends are on their way—one of them is medical staff. We’ll help you.”

She led me to the van. Even before I opened the door, the stench overwhelmed me—the smell of urine, rotting food, and the stench of despair.

In the back seat, on a pile of dirty blankets, lay a six-month-old baby—crying softly. Very softly.

And in the front seats—

Two adults. Unconscious. Breathing very shallow. Traces of drugs stained the dashboard. The man’s lips were turning blue.

I checked for a pulse—weak, but there was one. Then, carefully, I lifted Aarav. His wet, smelly diaper was hanging—his little body was extremely light.

“Anaya, when was the last time you saw him normal?” I asked.

“These aren’t my parents…” he whispered. “These are my aunt and her boyfriend. Mom died of cancer last year. Aunt Meera said she would take care of us… but then she met Rakesh… and she started using that medicine… which makes us sleepy…”

Sirens blared from a distance. Seconds later, Sher’s old Mahindra van pulled into the parking lot. Kira followed behind, carrying a support car.

Kira, formerly an ambulance nurse, immediately grabbed Aarav and began checking him over with lightning speed. Sher understood everything as soon as he looked at her.

“How long have you been like this?” she asked.

“The child says—three days.”

“Oh my God…”

Emergency teams arrived. Paramedics entered the van—masks on, drips on, and overdose-reversal medication. Within moments, the parking lot was filled with lights, sounds, and chaos—police, ambulances, social services.

Anaya clung to my arm in fear.

“They’ll take Aarav away…” she cried. “I tried… to take care of him… please forgive me…”

I bowed again.

“Anaya, you saved your brother’s life,” I said. “You’re only nine years old—but you kept him alive. No one will be angry with you.”

The social worker approached—holding a clipboard.

“We have to find a place for these children…”

“Together,” I said firmly. “They will live together.”

“That’s not always possible…”

Lion stepped forward—almost two meters tall. His jacket was gleaming with patches telling the story of his years in fire, rescue, and other service.