In a quiet corner behind the old village huts, tiny baby Lori sits trembling under a patch of broad green leaves. Her tiny body is bruised and sore — no one knows exactly how she got so badly hurt, but her cries break the heart of anyone who hears them.
Earlier that day, Lori had tried to play with the older monkeys near the dusty road. She is curious and eager, always chasing after bigger tails and louder chatter. But the rougher play turned bad when someone pushed her too hard. A bigger monkey tugged at her tiny arm, sending her tumbling onto sharp stones and dry sticks.
She squeaked and cried out for her mama, but fear made her run. Now she hides alone, her soft fur dirty and her wounds stinging. Every few minutes, she lets out a thin, high-pitched cry — calling for help that never comes quickly enough.
When the caretakers hear her voice, they follow the tiny whimpers to the shadows where she tries to stay hidden. Lori sees them coming, wide eyes full of pain and confusion. Too weak to run far, she tries anyway — stumbling on her sore leg, tears making her little face look even smaller.
One kind caretaker crouches low, speaking softly so she knows it’s safe. He holds out his hands, waiting. Lori hesitates, her tiny chest heaving with scared breaths. Then she gives in to the warmth she so desperately needs and crawls into his gentle arms.
Wrapped in a soft blanket, Lori cries one more time — but this time it’s softer, a plea for comfort as she’s carried to safety.
Tonight, Lori will rest under a warm light, her wounds cleaned and her belly full. And she will learn that help can come, even when you think you are all alone.
