The streets of Buenos Aires blazed under the midday sun as Patricia Suárez, a sixteen-year-old girl, ran desperately toward school. The heavy air seemed to cling to her skin, and the asphalt radiated a shimmering heat that made the distant buildings tremble.

Her worn shoes pounded the sidewalk at a frantic pace as she dodged passersby, clutching a stack of secondhand books to her chest. Her heart pounded in her temples, but she didn’t slow down. It would be her third time being late that week.

The headmaster had been clear on Monday morning, looking at her over his glasses:
“Suárez, one more instance of tardiness and we’ll review your scholarship. There are many students waiting for your place,” he had stated, his voice curt.

“I can’t lose it,” Patricia repeated to herself now, like a desperate mantra. Without the scholarship, she would not only have to leave the private school she’d gotten into almost by a miracle, but she’d also have to start working full-time at the neighborhood warehouse, like her mother. Studying was her only way out.

Her uniform, inherited from an older cousin, was a little too big and showed the marks of time: frayed cuffs, a permanent yellow stain on the collar of her shirt, a poorly mended seam on the skirt. But it was the best her family could afford, and Patricia wore it with pride, as if it were a brand-new suit.

As she turned onto Libertador Avenue, she slowed down slightly to avoid a man pushing an ice cream cart. And then she heard him.

At first she thought it was her imagination, a muffled echo amid the noise of the cars and distant voices. But the sound returned, this time a little clearer: a muffled, broken cry that faded and resurfaced at irregular intervals. Patricia stopped dead in her tracks, her chest rising and falling rapidly.

She frowned and looked around. The avenue, usually teeming with people at this hour, was strangely empty in that stretch. A few parked cars, lowered metal shutters, the distant murmur of the city. The crying started again, fainter, and Patricia, guided by instinct, followed the sound.

The groan came from a shiny black Mercedes parked in the blazing sun by the curb. The windows were rolled up and tinted, reflecting the light almost blindingly. Patricia approached; her own distorted image was reflected back at her from the dark glass, her face sweaty and worried.

He pressed his forehead against the window, trying to see inside. At first, he could only make out shadows, but as his eyes adjusted to the car’s dimness, he saw a small figure in the back seat. A baby, strapped into a car seat, was squirming weakly. Its face was as red as a tomato, and its hair was plastered to its forehead with sweat. Its lips were moving, but hardly a sound came out.

“Oh my God!” Patricia whispered, feeling a lurch in her stomach.

She tapped on the glass with her knuckles.
“Hello! Is anyone there? Hey! The baby!” she shouted, looking around for help.

The street was still deserted, as if the heat had swept everyone from the surface. No responsible adult, no security guard, no one who could tell her that everything was under control. She banged on the window again, harder this time. The baby wasn’t crying anymore; its movements were becoming slower and slower, almost imperceptible.

A pang of panic shot through Patricia. She suddenly remembered a news story she’d read on a colleague’s phone: a baby had died from heatstroke after being left in a car. The words pierced her mind. “They’re dying… they’re dying locked up…”

“No,” he murmured. “No, no, no.”

She checked the time on her phone: she was technically late. She could keep running to school and pretend she hadn’t seen anything. She could convince herself that her parents were probably nearby. She could save her scholarship.

But the image of the small, lifeless body in the back seat lodged in her throat. There was no choice; anyone who wasn’t made of stone would understand.

Her eyes searched desperately for something on the ground and spotted a broken brick next to a tree. She picked it up with trembling hands.
“I’m sorry…” she whispered, though she didn’t know if she was apologizing to the car owner, the baby, or her own future.

He closed his eyes for a second, took a deep breath, and with all his might, smashed the brick against the rear window.

The glass shattered with a sharp crack that seemed to reverberate down the avenue. A shower of glittering fragments rained down on the car seat and floor. Almost immediately, the alarm blared, its high-pitched siren shattering the midday silence.

Patricia felt tiny shards of glass pierce her forearms, but she didn’t move away. She reached through the jagged opening and, with desperate care, unbuckled the seatbelts. The baby’s body was burning hot to the touch, his clothes soaked. The girl took him in her arms, pressing him to her chest.

“Calm down, calm down…” he murmured, almost breathless. “You’re out now, my love, you’re out now.”

The little boy let out a muffled whimper, his head tilted to one side. His eyes were half-closed and his breathing was erratic.

Some neighbors looked out from their balconies, alarmed by the sound of the siren.

“Hey, you! What are you doing?” a man shouted from a window.
“The baby! He was suffocating from the heat!” Patricia replied, without pausing to explain.

She glanced toward the high school, then toward the public hospital, which she remembered was about six blocks away. Without hesitation, she clutched the baby to her chest, supporting its head with one hand, and ran toward the hospital.

Each step burned her feet, her uniform clung to her sweaty body, and her hands stung from the cuts. The baby weighed more than she had imagined, and by the third block, she was painfully short of breath. But she didn’t stop.

“Hold on, please, hold on…” she repeated between gasps. “It won’t be long now.”

A car slowed down beside her. A middle-aged driver rolled down his window.
“Honey! What’s wrong? Can I help you?”
“To the hospital! He’s dying!” Patricia shouted, still running.

The man parked abruptly, got out, and opened the passenger door.
“Get in, quick.”

She hesitated for a second—she’d been raised to distrust strangers—but she looked at the lifeless baby and didn’t hesitate any longer. She got into the car, resting the little one on her lap. The driver sped off toward the hospital.

“What happened to him?” he asked nervously.
“He was locked in a car. Alone. I don’t know for how long… It’s very hot…” Patricia said, her voice breaking.

The journey seemed endless, though it lasted no more than three minutes. When they arrived at the hospital’s emergency room, the driver barely braked; Patricia opened the door before the car came to a complete stop and ran out toward the entrance.

“Help! Please, help!” she cried, her voice breaking. “It’s a baby, it’s dying!”

A nurse on duty looked up from the counter. Seeing the young woman with the lifeless baby in her arms, she jumped up from her seat.

“Camilla, now!” he ordered.

Everything went blurry and fast. A stretcher appeared out of nowhere, and steady hands took the baby from Patricia’s arms, carefully placing him on it. The nurse began checking vital signs as they pushed the stretcher into the inner hallway.

“Doctor! Doctor Salcedo!” someone shouted.

A man in his forties came running from the end of the corridor, his white coat unbuttoned. He was tall, with graying hair at the temples and a tired face, but his eyes widened in surprise when he saw the baby.

He stopped dead in his tracks, as if he had run into an invisible wall. His hands began to tremble.

“No…” she whispered, almost voiceless. “It can’t be…”

Patricia’s eyes fixed on him, confused. The doctor took the last few steps in fits and starts, leaned over the examination table, and, recognizing the small blue bracelet on the baby’s wrist, let out a stifled sob.

“Tomás!” she exclaimed, her voice breaking.

Her knees buckled. She fell to the floor, placing her hands on the cold hospital floor, and began to weep openly, not caring about the people around her.

The nurse looked at him, puzzled.
“Doctor… do you know him?”

He forced himself to sit up, wiping his tears with the back of his hand.
“He’s my son,” he said with difficulty. “He’s my baby… He was… he was kidnapped this morning.”

The hallway seemed to fall completely silent. Patricia felt a tightness in her chest. She looked at the baby on the stretcher, barely conscious, and then at the doctor who was still trembling.

“Kidnapped?” she repeated, confused. “But… he was alone in a car… a black Mercedes…”

Dr. Salcedo blinked, as if each word required a Herculean effort.
“My wife took him to the park. The nanny swore someone pushed her, snatched him from her arms, and jumped into a car. The police are…” His voice broke. “I thought I’d never see him again.”

The nurse took him by the arm.
“Doctor, we need you. He has severe heatstroke.”

The doctor nodded, composed himself, and stood beside the baby. His hands, though still trembling, became expert and steady.
“We’ll have to bring his temperature down immediately. IV fluids, cool compresses, monitor his vital signs every minute. And call the pediatric ICU. Now!”

Patricia took a step back, suddenly feeling out of place, tiny in that world of white coats and medical terminology. She noticed that the t-shirt under her uniform blouse was soaked; sweat, adrenaline, and fear mingled in a sticky sensation.

A second nurse approached her.
“Did you bring him?” she asked, pointing to the baby.
Patricia nodded silently.
“Come here, your hands are covered in blood,” she added gently.

The girl looked at her fingers for the first time: they were stained red, but it wasn’t the baby’s blood; it was her own, from the small cuts caused by the glass. She hadn’t felt the pain until that moment. The nurse led her to a nearby sink, where she carefully cleaned her wounds.

Meanwhile, the doors of the emergency room closed on the baby’s small body and the doctor who was working frantically to save him.

Minutes later, the emergency room lobby was swarming with police officers. An elegant-looking woman, her makeup smeared with tears and her blonde hair disheveled, burst into the room almost running, accompanied by two officers. Upon seeing the nurse, she lunged at her.

“My son! Where is my son?! Say something, please!” she screamed hysterically.

“Ma’am, calm down,” a police officer tried. “They have him inside, they’re taking care of him.”

Patricia watched her with a mixture of curiosity and distant respect. That woman, with her expensive dress and understated jewelry, seemed to come from a world very different from her own. But the pain etched on her face was universal.

“Who found him?” the other policeman asked, looking around.

The nurse pointed at Patricia.
“It was her. She brought him here.”

All eyes turned to the young woman. Her heart leaped. Suddenly she found herself surrounded by blue uniforms, the astonished gaze of the baby’s mother, and the growing murmur of the hospital staff.

“Did you break into the car?” one of the officers asked, pulling out a notebook.
“Yes…” Patricia stammered. “I heard him crying. He was alone, it was really hot, he was barely moving. I broke the window and pulled him out.”

The mother stared at her, tears streaming down her cheeks. On impulse, she closed the distance between them and took Patricia’s wounded hands.
“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice completely broken. “Thank you, thank you… I don’t know how…” and she began to weep on the girl’s shoulder.

Patricia, uncomfortable but moved, held her awkwardly. No one from that social class had ever hugged her, much less in such a desperate way.

The officer cleared his throat.
“We’re going to need your full statement, miss. And the address where we can find you. We’ll also be speaking with the car’s owner.”

Patricia paled.
“I… I have to go to school,” she murmured suddenly, remembering her scholarship, her principal, her life before that midday.

The police officer looked at her incredulously.
“Your school can wait. This is a possible kidnapping.”

Before I could answer, the emergency room door opened again. Dr. Salcedo came out, his face tired but different: there was a new light in his eyes, fragile but real.

The mother ran to him.
“And Tomás? How is he?”
He hugged her tightly.
“He’s stable. You arrived just in time. Another half hour in that car and…” She didn’t finish the sentence.

He moved away from her and looked around. When he found Patricia, he walked towards the young woman with a determined stride.

“Are you the one who rescued him?” she asked.

Patricia nodded, swallowing hard, unsure what to expect: gratitude? Reproaches for having damaged the car?

The doctor didn’t hesitate. He knelt in front of her, just as he had done earlier in the hallway, but now for a different reason. He took her hands carefully, avoiding the bandaged areas.

“I’m speechless,” he said, his voice hoarse. “You saved my son’s life. I don’t know how I can ever thank you enough.”

Her eyes widened.
“I… I only did what anyone would have done…
” “No,” he denied, looking at her seriously. “Many people would have walked right past. Or they would have wasted time calling someone, waiting for someone else to act. You decided. You ran. You brought him here. My son is alive because of you.”

The baby’s mother, still trembling, joined in, bowing her head to the teenager.
“Please, tell us your name.”
“Patricia… Patricia Suárez.”

The police officer coughed again, trying to regain control of the situation.
“Mr. Salcedo, ma’am, we need to follow protocol. There will be an investigation.
” “Of course,” said the doctor, standing up. “But first, I want to make sure Miss Suárez is properly cared for.”

The nurse smiled.
“We’ve already cleaned his hands. They’re superficial wounds.”

Patricia looked at the clock in the hallway and felt a knot in her stomach.

“I’m going to lose my scholarship,” she murmured inadvertently, under her breath.

The doctor heard her.
“Your scholarship?”
“I was late to school last week… and today…” she sighed. “The principal said that if I’m late again…”

The doctor looked at her for a few seconds, as if he were seeing her for the first time. He saw the worn uniform, the old shoes, the secondhand books.

“Which school do you attend?” he asked.
She told him. He nodded slowly.
“I know the principal. He’s a patient of mine.” He paused. “I promise you won’t lose your scholarship for saving a baby’s life. If necessary, I’ll go and talk to him myself.”

Patricia looked at him, unable to hide her disbelief.
“Would you really do that?
” “It’s the least I can do.”

What followed were hours of statements, questions, and forms. The police took note of every detail Patricia remembered: the car’s position, the approximate time, the license plate she barely caught a glimpse of. The driver who had helped her was also located and corroborated her account.

Later, it emerged that the alleged kidnappers had abandoned the baby in the car, fearing police checkpoints, leaving it to its fate and hoping the heat would do the rest and erase their fingerprints. They never imagined that a student in a hurry would interrupt their plans.

That same week, a news story made headlines in local newspapers and online portals:
“Young man from a humble neighborhood saves the baby of a renowned doctor. Anonymous hero of Buenos Aires.”

Patricia’s photo, in her neat uniform and with small bandages still on her hands, appeared in more than one place. The school principal, far from withdrawing her scholarship, called her into his office to congratulate her, though not without some embarrassment for his previous threats.

“Dr. Salcedo told me everything,” he admitted, adjusting his glasses. “The country needs more students like you, Suárez.”

A month later, at a small ceremony in the hospital, Tomás’s family invited Patricia and her mother. The baby, now recovered, slept peacefully in his father’s arms.

In front of a small group of doctors, nurses and some local journalists, the doctor took the floor.

“There are gestures that change lives,” he said, looking at Patricia. “My son will be here to grow up, laugh, cry, and become who he is meant to be, thanks to the courage of a sixteen-year-old girl who, one hot day, decided that the life of a stranger was worth more than her own fear.”

Then he turned to her.
“Patricia, my wife and I have decided to create a small scholarship in your name to help you with your studies. We can’t repay you exactly for what you gave us… but we can try to make your path a little easier.”

Patricia, her eyes filled with tears, could barely manage a simple thank you. She wasn’t used to applause, speeches, or cameras. But when she held little Tomás in her arms, and he woke up and looked at her with his big, dark eyes, she understood that it had all been worth it.

She remembered the sun burning her skin, the sound of shattering glass, the fear of losing everything. And she knew, with quiet certainty, that if she were back on that corner of Libertador Avenue, late again, with her life hanging by a thread, she would do exactly the same thing.