He’s a young boy, maybe ten years old. Brown hair, light brown eyes, tanned skin, barefoot. He’s so thin you can see his collarbones.
He’s wearing a faded, hole-ridden t-shirt and dirty pants. His face is smeared with grime and he smells strong.
It’s obvious he’s a street kid.
He holds a large blue box with a red ribbon wrapped around it like a gift.
“Hello, ma’am, someone told me to bring you this box.”
As soon as Alexander hears the boy’s voice, he puts away his gun and steps out from hiding. He stands behind me—so close I feel his muscles against my back.
The boy explains that a man approached him while he was begging, gave him a ten-euro bill to make the delivery.
We both keep our eyes on the boy. He genuinely seems clueless.
Alexander leans in and whispers:
“Pick up the box g
