Dubai airport. I'm twelve, flying back to the States with a bored-looking flight attendant assigned to escort me. In the boarding area next to mine, where a plan is about ot leave for Oman, I see four terrified girls, all younger than me, sitting with a man. I can tell right away he isn't their father. None of the girls look alike; none of them look like him; and he looks...downright mean. Their plane is boarding. Mr. Evil steps aside for a minute, and I ask the oldest girl: "Are you okay?" She begins to cry, quietly though, tears streaking down her cheeks. The man returns, glares at me, barks something at the girl, and they scurry after him to board the plane.

The older girl throws a desperate look over he shoulder and catches my eye before disappearing. And I? I do...nothing. It's time for me to board my plane to Cairo, and my own escort is hurrying me along.

When I tell Mom about it, she says that they were probably being sold as housemaids or something even worse. Why? I ask. How can that still be happening?
She gives me three reasons:
1. Their parents are so poor they have to sell one child to keep the others alive.
2. Professional kidnapping groups grab them out of their villages and make sure their families can't race them.
3. Nobody knows how widespread the practice is; nobody cares enough to try and stop it.

I'll never forget that oldest girl's eyes. I see them sometimes in my dreams. But always, again, again and again, I do...nothing. When I wake up, I'm crying.