She was just another woman at my gate, tired, thin, and hungry looking.

"Help me," she begged, handing me her medical records. "I'm hungry. My son is hungry." She motions to the child hiding behind her skirts, his belly protruding from his too-small shirt. "I've been sick and haven't had the strength to work for three days. Can you give me food?"

I hesitate, my hand on the gate. Another woman, another decision. I look down at her worn medical book, the pages full of a history of illness. There it is again, those letters I see almost daily since moving here: HIV+

And the child? Also positive.

I glance up and our eyes meet.