We got a call for a ten year old boy with “pain in his genitals.” What parent would call a rescue and subject their child to the humiliation of explaining his plight to more people than necessary I wondered. We arrived at the house, a drab, three story in a neglected neighborhood. I knocked on the door, a guy about thirty years old answered. A kitten tried to escape, the guy swatted it back in with the shirt he was holding. The boy stood to the side, looking miserable. His mother told him to tell us what was wrong. The little guy looked down at the grimy carpet and shyly told us that his privates hurt. He noticed when he was showereing. Renato, with two boys of his own back home tried to lessen his anxiety. “Maybe you got soap where it doesn’t belong,” he offered. “I don’t use soap,” the kid replied, miserable. “One day I was late for work,” I said as we walked outside. “I got out of the shower and was ironing my shirt naked and ironed my youknowhat by mistake.” It may have been the first time he laughed all day. I think we made a friend for life.