Priya was seven years old, and she possessed the kind of fierce certainty that only children seem capable of carrying without hesitation.
She believed unfairness should be corrected immediately.
Not debated.
Not analyzed.
Corrected.
Every weekday morning, her mother packed the same lunch with careful consistency: a sandwich wrapped neatly in paper, a fruit cup, a small bag of pretzels, and a juice box tucked into the side pocket of her backpack.
And every afternoon, walking home from the school bus stop, Priya passed the same man sitting near the public library steps.
He always sat in nearly the same place, beneath the shade of a worn stone pillar, beside a cardboard sign written in thick black marker. Most adults glanced at him briefly before looking away. Others avoided eye contact entirely, pretending not to notice him.
Priya noticed him immediately.
