“No, little girl. You can’t get in without the money.” Jeffrey, the bus driver, told a little girl who wanted to get on the bus but only had a few pennies. She must have been around seven years old, and he wasn’t in the mood to deal with unaccompanied children that day.

“Please, sir. I want to visit my grandmother,” the little girl begged. “Then go ask your parents for the money and come back next time,” Jeffrey replied and gestured with his hand for the girl to get out. She finally left the bus with her shoulders lowered. Jeffrey saw her sit down at the bus stop and drove off.

He finished his route and went home for the lunch, greeting his wife, Greta, and sitting down on the couch to rest. When he browsed his Facebook posts, an image caught his attention. A picture was shared of the little girl he had just turned away a few hours earlier. The word “Missing” was written on top of the image. He learned that the girl had disappeared a day ago, and her parents were desperately trying to find her.

“Dear! What have I done?” he asked himself, standing up and going to the front door. When Greta asked where he was going, Jeffrey said, “Greta! Quick! Call 911 and this number,” showing her the picture of the girl. “I saw this girl at a bus stop earlier, and I turned her away because she didn’t have enough money. I’m going to find her, but please make those calls.” Having told her where the bus stop was, he went out.

Jeffrey rushed to his car, speeding to the bus stop. Hopefully, the girl was smart enough to stay in one place. He couldn’t believe how careless he had been earlier. She was a little girl all alone. As he drove to the bus stop, Jeffrey vowed to be more careful in the future, especially when it came to children.

Finally, Jeffrey saw a tiny figure sitting on the bench at the spot.

A few minutes later, the police and another car approached.

Last Saturday, I drove back home from a long hard day. It was snowing heavily and the traffic inched slowly forward like snails. I was so hungry because I skipped my lunch that I decided to stop by KFC and had a quick bite before I continued my journey home. It took me a long time to find a place to park my car. With my face buried in my collar, I walked slowly in the snow. Soon my hands were numb(麻木) with cold, so I pulled my gloves out of my coat pocket and put them on.

I ordered some fried chicken and dug into my pocket for my wallet to pay, only to find it was not there! I remembered I did bring it with me before I set out. Embarrassed, I left the chicken on the counter and said I would return in a minute. Deeply worried, I got out of KFC and ran towards my car, wondering where my wallet, with everything in it, was.

Fresh snow was like a blank paper, recording my tracks. My attention fixed on the ground, I expected to find it on my way. Unfortunately, what I found was only the shape of it in the snow. Obviously, I lost it when I pulled my gloves out. Judging from the footprints on the ground, I was not the only one. There was someone else joining my way. But the footprints of this guy were messy. It seemed that he walked back and forth. My heart sank. At a loss of which way he went, I knew I could never claim my wallet back. Bye, fried chicken, not today. I walked towards my car helplessly.

A short, skinny man was standing by my car. He seemed like homeless because he was dressed in oversized worn-out coat and his face was dirty. He was stamping his feet to keep warm. I felt sorry for him because I had nothing to help him, no money, no food.

The man noticed me and asked if this was my car.

Refusing my money, he was about to leave.

Polly Goodman, 82-year-old, was a rich old woman. Her husband was a businessman and left her a large fortune after his death, so she had no problems supporting herself. The only problem was that her son who was a doctor busy with his work seldom had time to visit her, leaving her living lonely.

One day, Polly was walking along the beach, like she did every evening near her seaside house, when she noticed a young boy and his little sister playing there. As she was passing by them, she heard their mother calling out to them. “Corey! Daisy! Be careful! Stay away from the water!”

Polly noticed their mother resting on a bench, appearing sick and tired. The dark circles under her eyes were quite obvious, and she coughed frequently. Polly always had a desire to have a chat with someone. So she walked carefully towards the mother with a kind smile on her face.

“Hi, I’m Polly. I live by the beach.” Polly said.

The mother looked up at Polly, feeling a little surprised. The mother told Polly she was Lydia and had worked as a waitress. Lydia further said that she and her children had only recently moved to that location because her children had always wanted to see the ocean. Then Lydia stopped to cough heavily. After she calmed down, it seemed she wanted to say something, but stopped as if there was something difficult to tell. Polly did not follow up, saying goodbye and left.

When Polly went to the beach the next day, she saw the kids again, but this time their mother wasn’t with them. She observed them playing by themselves until late in the evening before heading home. The third day came and again the two kids played at the seaside until late in the evening, still without their mother s company. Then the elder brother was about to lead the sister back home. Out of curiosity and care Polly decided to follow them to their house.

Krymzen, aged 10 and her sister Samara Wagner, aged 9, lived in Edmonton, near the North Saskatchewan River. It was 4 p.m. on Easter Sunday and there was still snow on the ground. The sisters dressed in their favorite T-shirts and pink leggings ran to the woodland behind their home. They loved Rundle Park in the river valley. It was a perfect place to play while their mom, Miranda Wagner, was busy preparing the family’s festive dinner.

Before long, they got bored. They decided to do something different. Krymzen led the way and Samara followed. They were heading to the one place their mom had told them never to go—the river. They started taking little careful steps across the ice, dipping their rubber boots into the water. Then they heard a big crack.

After hearing the crack, Krymzen turned around fast and got back to safety. But Samara didn’t. She fell into the cold river. Seeing the dangerous situation, she ran back to Samara. “Samara, can you reach my hand?” she cried as her sister struggled in the water.

Not far away from the river, a young couple Adam and Kelsey Shaw were walking their dog Rocky, an eight-year-old husky. They were crossing the Rundle Park footbridge on the way back to the parking lot when they heard screams.

They looked over the side of the bridge and spotted a girl who had fallen through the ice and another trying to pull her to safety. “We see you!” They shouted down to them. “Help is coming!” Adam told Kelsey to call an ambulance. Then he turned to the dog. “Rocky,” he said, “we’re going down.” He and Rocky slipped and slid down the same hill the girls took just minutes earlier.

Adam and his dog managed to reach the crack.

Luckily, the ambulance arrived in time to rush Samara to hospital.

It was cool and bright and just right for running. I was in the first few miles of a 10-mile race through some hills. Birds were singing on the trees. The soft wind was brushing my cheeks. I felt rested and springy. Despite the hills, I thought it was going to be a fine run.

Ahead was Blake, a student from Burke High School. He was running easily, too, moving along efficiently. The pace felt comfortable, so I decided to stay where he was; why bother concentrating on pace when Blake was such a nice pacesetter for me? I would overtake Blake later on when he used up energy.

So I ran closely behind him. The course headed north for five miles, wandered west for a mile, and then turned south again. The race was getting tougher. With three miles to go, it was beginning to be real hard work. My lungs were on fire, and legs felt like stone.

Blake overtook the boy in front of him. Apparently he knew the boy, for they exchanged a few words. Their brief communication worried me. Runners don’t chat during a race unless they feel really good, and Blake plainly was. There was still a noticeable bounce in his steps, but the springiness I had once possessed was gone.

Still, I was close enough to overtake Blake if he was tired, so I didn’t give up hope completely. We were approaching a hill, a mile from the finish line, so whatever happened on the hill would almost certainly determine who crossed it first.

As I moved up the hill, my attention wandered for a few minutes. When I looked up, Blake was moving away, first five yards, then ten, then more. There was no hope of catching Blake.

Suddenly Blake slowed and sat onto the ground painfully.

A reporter took a picture of this moving scene and posted it online.