It was just another typical shift at the gas station until a small voice broke the monotony. A young boy walked in, barefoot, his eyes red from crying, mumbling, “Daddy, ouch.” He wouldn’t say much else and flat-out refused to let me take him home. It was clear something wasn't right. What we discovered next flipped my world upside down and demanded immediate action.
The boy stood by the gas station counter, looking around nervously. I tried to help by offering him a drink. 'Hey there, want something to drink? We've got orange juice, water, soda,' I said with a friendly tone. His eyes darted to the fridge, then back at me, as he bit his lip. He nodded slightly, accepting the orange juice I handed over.