That day, the city of Novorossiysk lay under the cruel grip of a summer heatwave, the kind of heat that made the world feel as if it were holding its breath. The air shimmered, thick and stifling, and the streets were mostly deserted, save for the occasional passerby who sought shelter in the scant shadows offered by the old buildings. The hum of air conditioners and the distant rustling of curtains were the only sounds that dared to disrupt the oppressive silence.
Sixteen-year-old Slavik Belov was running late again. He’d been late for his lessons with Viktor Alexeievich countless times, but today, for some reason, it didn’t matter. His bag slapped against his back, his sneakers slipping on the hot asphalt as he pushed himself faster through the streets. The heat clung to him like a second skin, his T-shirt soaked through with sweat, but his mind was elsewhere.
It was then, just as he rounded the corner of an abandoned supermarket, that he heard it. A sound that cut through the thick, still air like a cry for help.
A child’s voice. Faint, barely audible over the heat, but unmistakable.
Slavik stopped in his tracks, his heart pounding in his chest. He looked around but saw no one, only the abandoned supermarket and the empty street stretching out ahead. The cry came again, weak and desperate.
Instinctively, Slavik’s feet moved towards the sound, drawing him to an old car parked under a dying tree, its paint chipped and faded. The windows were tinted, and as he approached, he could see the faint outline of a small figure inside. His stomach tightened as he realized it was a child, a toddler, her face pale and drawn, her lips cracked from thirst.
His first instinct was to run for help, to call the police. But as he stood there, staring at the child through the window, something inside him shifted. He couldn’t just walk away.
“Hey! Is anyone here?!” he shouted, his voice cracking in the stifling silence. There was no response. The heat was so intense, it felt as if the whole world had been drained of sound.
Slavik’s hand trembled as he grabbed the door handle, but it was locked. He tried again, desperation creeping into his movements. Locked, again. His breath came in short gasps, panic rising in his chest.
There was no time to waste. Without thinking, he picked up a nearby stone, his hand sweaty as he raised it and brought it down onto the window. The glass shattered in an explosion of sound, and the air inside the car hit him like a wave of heat from an oven.
Slavik’s hands were shaking as he reached in, fingers trembling as he undid the child’s seatbelt. With a swift motion, he pulled her from the car, cradling her tiny body against his chest. Her skin was hot to the touch, but she was alive.
“Don’t worry,” he whispered, the words more for himself than for her. “You’re safe now.”
He turned and began running, not thinking about the exhaustion in his legs or the burning pain in his lungs. There were still a few blocks to the clinic, but in that moment, it felt like the longest journey of his life. Sweat stung his eyes, and his legs buckled beneath him, but he didn’t stop.
As he ran, passersby began to take notice. Some shouted at him, asking what was going on, but he couldn’t hear them. All he could hear was the frantic beating of his heart, the sound of his breath, and the silent, fragile weight of the child in his arms.
Finally, the doors of the clinic loomed ahead, and Slavik burst through them, breathless and desperate. The smell of antiseptic, the cool air, the hurried footsteps of the staff — it all welcomed him like a lifeline.
“Help!” he gasped, his voice hoarse. “She’s in the car… the heat… she…”
A nurse rushed forward, her face stern but filled with immediate concern. Slavik didn’t know her name, didn’t know anything about the girl in his arms. But at that moment, he knew one thing for sure: he had just saved her life.