While airport guards and doctors froze in panic over the millionaire's paralyzed boy, a seven-year-old girl in patched jeans dropped to her knees and did what no adult dared to do.

The radiator in Apartment 3B let out a loud, metallic clank before dying completely.

Maya sat on the edge of a worn-out mattress on the floor, wrapped in a faded yellow blanket. Her small fingers were stiff from the cold, but she was carefully threading a new piece of white yarn through the eyelets of her left boot.

Across the tiny room, her mother, Elena, was stirring a small pot of canned bean soup over a portable electric burner. Her hands were red and chapped, her face marked by deep lines of exhaustion that made her look ten years older than twenty-nine.

"Keep the blanket over your shoulders, Maya," Elena said softly, offering a brave smile that didn't reach her tired eyes. "The landlord said he’d check the boiler in the morning."

"He lied, Mom," Maya said plainly, her small voice echoed in the barren room. "He said that on Tuesday, too."

Elena sighed, setting the wooden spoon down. She walked over, sat beside her daughter on the mattress, and pulled her close, wrapping her own coat around them both.

"I know, sweetie. I know," Elena whispered, kissing Maya’s brown hair. "I’m sorry. If I can get the night shift at the diner tomorrow, we’ll have enough for an electric heater."

Maya laid her head against her mother’s chest. "Mom?"

"Yes, Maya?"

"Is that little boy from the airport okay?"

Elena smiled faintly. "I’m sure he is, baby. You were very brave. His daddy looked like he loved him very much."

"He was crying," Maya said, looking at her yarn-laced boot. "Rich people cry just like us, right?"

"When their children are hurt, yes," Elena said softly. "Love doesn't care how much money you have in the bank."

Suddenly, a heavy, violent bang shook the thin wooden door of the apartment.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Maya jumped, her heart racing as she pulled the yellow blanket higher.

"Elena Miller!" a harsh, gravelly voice shouted from the hallway outside. "Open this door right now!"

Elena’s face drained of color. She stood up slowly, putting herself between Maya and the door.

"Mr. Vance," Elena said through the wood, her voice trembling. "It’s eight o'clock at night. Maya is sleeping."

"I don't give a damn what time it is!" Marcus Vance, the building’s notorious slumlord, yelled back. "Your back rent was due yesterday! Twelve hundred dollars, or you and your kid are out on the street!"

"Please, Mr. Vance," Elena begged, her hand on the cold doorknob. "I get my paycheck from the laundry on Friday. I’ll give you every cent!"

The door was kicked open with a loud CRACK, snapping the cheap metal latch.

Marcus Vance—a bloated man in a stained leather jacket, holding a thick wooden baseball bat—stepped into the room. Behind him stood two muscular men in sweatpants.

"Friday was yesterday!" Vance spat, looking around the miserable room with disgust. "I’ve got a tenant willing to pay cash tonight. Grab your trash and get out."

"You can't do this!" Elena cried, tears spilling over her cheeks as she backed toward Maya. "It’s fifteen degrees outside! There’s a blizzard coming!"

"Not my problem," Vance sneered, waving his hand to his two thugs. "Throw their stuff out the window into the alley. Start with the mattress."

"No! Leave my mom alone!" Maya screamed, stepping in front of her mother, holding her small fists up, her body shaking with cold and rage.