It happened one afternoon, in front of the bus station in a big city. A pregnant woman was standing alone on the sidewalk, wearing a thin coat, holding her belly with one hand. At one point, she let out a faint groan and collapsed to her knees, as if her legs had given out beneath her.

The people around stopped for a moment. No one came closer. Just furtive glances, whispers, and phones discreetly pulled out.

— “Cheap act,” someone muttered.

— “Or maybe a junkie…” giggled a woman while filming.

I stopped next to her. I didn’t know what to do, but I couldn’t just walk away. Her face was pale as chalk, and beads of sweat glistened on her forehead.

— “Contractions?” I asked softly.

She nodded, barely opening her mouth:

— “Eight… eight months…”

I looked around for help. No one seemed willing to step in. One guy was munching on sunflower seeds, another was glued to his phone, and a woman made a show of stepping away from us.

And then he appeared.

A tall man, wearing a dark tracksuit, with a tattoo on his neck and a look that made people instinctively step aside. I didn’t know him, but something about him made it clear—this was not someone to mess with.

— “Look at this guy…” two men murmured beside me.

— “Bet he’s going to rob her now,” another woman scoffed.

Without paying them any attention, he knelt beside the woman. No hesitation. He spoke calmly, with a confidence that made me feel, for the first time in the past few minutes, like someone actually knew what they were doing.

— “How far apart are the contractions?” he asked, holding her wrist between his fingers.

— “Four… four minutes…”