Alex was on mission in the Horn of Africa during a devastating cholera outbreak. His work was broad: reorganizing the wards to handle more patients, teaching local staff how to recognize high-risk cases, and coordinating outreach posts so the sickest could be referred for IV treatment at the main center.

One morning, after visiting several remote posts, Alex and his team were driving back along the main road in their Land Cruiser when an elderly man appeared, waving them down. He asked them to see a patient nearby.

On a mat outside a hut lay an old woman. Her face was deeply lined, her body shrunken, her eyes half-closed. She was collapsed from severe diarrhea, in shock and barely conscious. Without hesitation, Alex and his colleagues lifted her into the back of the vehicle. As they sped toward the center, they started a drip to fight her dehydration.

At the hospital she was admitted to the emergency room, and Alex turned to his other duties — training, organizing, guiding. It was late in the afternoon before he returned to look for the woman again. But she was nowhere to be found.

A heavy feeling crept in: perhaps she had not survived. With little hope, Alex walked through the female ward, scanning bed after bed. Then he stopped.

There, lying quietly, was a young woman he did not recognize — but beside her sat the same man who had waved them down on the road.

“It’s my daughter,” the man said. “Thank you for saving her life.”

Alex frowned, realizing why he had not recognized her. The wrinkles on the old man’s face deepened as he showed his thankfulness. On hers, there were none.