In the villa of Medellín, Francisco, Catalina, and Isabella separated from the group, followed by a few servants carrying their bags.
Francisco looked at the two girls and asked, "So, my ladies, what shall we do while Father organizes everything here?"
Catalina glanced at Isabella with a teasing smile. "Today, it depends on your little sister."
"I don't know," Isabella said proudly, tilting her chin up. "You choose!"
Francisco was speechless at his sister's antics. He turned to Catalina again, silently asking for help.
Catalina smiled. "Then why don't we let your brother take us shopping for clothes?"
"That's it!" Isabella exclaimed. "Let's go, big brother!"
Francisco sighed but smiled helplessly and followed them. It seemed that while they had been in Bogotá, a new market had blossomed in Medellín. With carriages constantly coming and going, merchants had set up stalls selling everything imaginable—from ponchos and sandals to fabrics and jewelry.
The air buzzed with chatter and laughter. The scent of roasted corn, tanned leather, and wood smoke mingled with perfume oils. Isabella and Catalina walked ahead, delightedly browsing the stalls, while Francisco followed behind, paying for their growing pile of purchases.
After a while, they stopped to try some street food—fried plantains and sweet arepas dripping with butter. As they ate, a commotion broke out nearby.
"Thief! Catch him!" shouted a store owner.
A small boy darted through the crowd, clutching what looked like bread. Several assistants chased him down, catching him by the arm. The store owner raised his hand to strike when Isabella suddenly stepped forward.
"Don't hurt him!" she cried, spreading her arms to shield the boy. She squeezed her eyes shut, bracing for the blow—but it never came. Opening them, she saw Francisco gripping the man's wrist mid-air.
The furious store owner snapped, "Who the hell are you? This is none of your business!"
A crowd gathered, whispering among themselves:
"He deserves it."
"Best not to interfere."
Francisco frowned. "It doesn't matter who I am. Hurting a child is wrong—no matter the reason."
The store owner sneered. "If you don't teach brats like this a lesson, they'll keep stealing. A good beating will make him a decent citizen."
Francisco's expression stayed calm, but his tone hardened. "Do you really believe that? That beating a hungry child makes him a better person?"
"Of course!" the man barked. "That's how my father raised me—and how most folks were raised. Am I wrong?"
The crowd murmured their agreement.
Francisco gave a cold, crooked smile. "Really? Because from what I see, you just sent two grown men to beat a starving boy for stealing food worth less than a peso. That tells me your compassion is worth even less."
He crouched beside the boy and asked gently, "Can you tell us why you stole this food? What's your name?"
The boy hesitated, trembling under the stares of the crowd. Then he said softly, "I'm Juan an orphan. My father was a militiaman. He died fighting the Indians. They gave my mother some pesos after he died, but it ran out fast. Six months ago, she went to the mountains to look for food… and never came back." Tears streaked his dirty cheeks.
Someone in the crowd gasped. "Isn't that Pedro's son?"
"I heard Pedro died after being poisoned by an arrow," said another. "His wife used to help everyone. I wondered why she vanished."
"Didn't he have four kids?" someone else whispered.
Francisco spoke gently. "Is it true you have three siblings?"
The boy nodded. "My little sister hasn't eaten in almost a week. She's very weak. Nobody wants to hire me because I'm dirty and tired from helping look after them all day. I just wanted to take some food… I was going to pay later, when I could, i swear."
The crowd's mood shifted immediately.
"It's just a little food," someone muttered.
"Do you want a whole family to starve?"
"Have you forgotten what Christ taught?"
The store owner's face flushed red with shame and anger. "So what? I have to eat too! If I let every thief go, it'll be my family that starves!"
People fell silent, realizing he wasn't entirely wrong.
Francisco nodded slightly. "I understand. You're right to protect your property. What I oppose is cruelty. Most of us survive by our hands and sweat—but there's a difference between an adult thief and a starving child. A man who steals has choices. A boy like him doesn't."
He reached into his pocket, pulled out several pesos, and handed them to the shopkeeper. "Here. This covers what he took—and more, for your trouble."
The shopkeeper hesitated, his anger fading. "Maybe… maybe I can't feed him, but I have some old clothes my children don't use. I'll send my assistants to fetch them."
Moved by the scene, others began offering help—some food, others small jobs. The boy looked around, overwhelmed, and said tearfully, "Thank you… I'm sorry for everything."
Isabella's eyes sparkled as she turned to her brother. "Big brother, you're the best!" she said, hugging him tightly.
Francisco smiled faintly but then turned serious. "Go," he told one of the servants, "find out how many children like him live in Medellín." Then, after a pause, he added, "No—find out how many in all of Antioquia."
The servant bowed and hurried off.
Catalina, noticing his thoughtful look, asked softly, "What are you thinking about?"
Francisco exhaled. "About this boy. How many like him must there be across New Granada? Potential talents dying just because they have no one to guide or feed them."
Catalina sighed sadly. "Too many. But what can we do?"
"Maybe something," Francisco said quietly.
She raised an eyebrow. "An orphanage? You know those belong to the Church. Do you really want to get involved?"
Francisco smirked. "Seems to me they're not doing a very good job. I don't just want to feed these children—I want to educate them. In science, in knowledge. When I return from Germany, I'll need people who understand such things. Most educated men are criollos or wealthy mestizos with their own ambitions. But orphans… they have nothing to lose, and no one to betray."
Catalina rolled her eyes. "Why don't you just admit you want to help them?" she muttered.
Francisco chuckled. "Because I'm no saint. I prefer pragmatism—even if it looks like kindness. When everyone gains something, there's no guilt."
Catalina shrugged. "Whatever you say." She turned to the boy. "Show us where you live. We'll bring food for your siblings."
Francisco said nothing, just followed quietly beside her and Isabella through the bustling streets of Medellín.