In London, England, a sad poet sits looking out his window. It is a dreary day, more dismal clouds smearing the sky like smog. His pen sits uselessly in his fingers, heavy with unwritten words. The power of his melancholy is such that he can hardly bear to lift his hand.

Somewhere, someone donates $1,000,000 to The Lonely Poets Foundation.

In New York, New York, a disgraced politician sits in a room of similarly cast down individuals. He is here because he has been touching his assistant's nine-year-old daughter whenever they are alone and the girl has finally told.

Somewhere, someone donates $500,000 to The Pedophile Rehabilitation Center.

In Toronto, Canada, a scrawny beagle watches wearily through the bars of her cage as a volunteer distributes food. She doesn't know if she likes this. In her old home, her master kicked her and forgot to feed her for days on end, but at least in those days, she had space to stretch her legs and run around.

Somewhere, someone donates $100,000 to the Animal Shelter.

In Beijing, China, a girl sits at the edge of her bed, crying. She has no friends, awful grades, and no discernable talents. Her father wishes she was a boy and her mother is stoic and indifferent. The girls at school say she has ugly teeth and should kill herself. She dials the number with a trembling hand.

Somewhere, someone donates $50,000 to the Teen Suicide Hotline.

In Melbourne, Australia, a woman cries out for her husband to remember himself. He is lost in the throes of alcohol and she is caught in a blizzard of punches, kicks, and insults. She cannot think any lower of herself than she already does. She feels bruises forming over older bruises, scars being carved over older scars.

Somewhere, someone donates $10,000 to the End Domestic Abuse Campaign.

In San Diego, California, a war veteran looks over the side of the Golden Gate Bridge at the waters below. They sparkle, welcoming him. Even in his last moments, he cannot unsee the horrors of war. They occupy his subconscious, lingering like a bad smell.

Somewhere, someone donates $5,000 to the Wounded Warrior Project

In Warsaw, Poland, a boy throws up into a metal trashcan. He is undergoing chemotherapy treatment that may or may not save his life. His parents are asleep, their nightmares haunted by the large sums of money they will need to produce, whether the treatment works or not. He feels sick but no sicker than usual.

Somewhere, someone donates $1,000 to St. Jude's Research Facility.

In Kipushi in The Democratic Republic of the Congo, an eight-year-old girl descends into the cobalt mines for yet another day of hard, dangerous work. At the end of the day, she will receive two dollars for her work. She thinks, she knows she deserves more, but what can she do? She is trapped here just like the kids who were in the mine yesterday when the roof collapsed.

Somewhere, someone donates $500 to the Safe Cobalt Foundation.

In Yerevan, Armenia, a mother rushes for the school building as the ground quakes beneath her. She watches the walls crumble like the ribs of a paper body, listening to the screams. She tries to identify the voices of her own three children among the sordid chorus of pandemonium. Then there is silence.

Somewhere, someone donates $100 to Project Rebuild Armenia.

In Moscow, Russia, a girl is trapped in a hotel room with a strange man. She was sold into prostitution by her family in Pakistan because, at twelve, she is the oldest of her siblings and pretty enough to make a good sum. The man shoves her against the wall, and, in a few quick minutes, deflowers her and leaves her to cry on the floor. The rest of her life will be hunger and misery and pain.

Somewhere, someone donates $50 to the End Forced Prostitution Fund.

In Abuja, Nigeria, a woman smells the deep, pungent rot of death beside her. Her husband's still, cold face is contorted, a sculpture of agony. In the next bed, her children cough and vomit. She is too sick to go clean them off. They will all die here like this, bathed in their own filth and shame.

Somewhere, someone donates $10 to the Aids Prevention Foundation.

In Jacmel, Haiti, a boy shivers in under the awning of a crumbling hotel. He is so empty, so hungry, that his stomach lining seems to be eating itself. Today, he could not bear it anymore. He ripped a string of dirty, tire-tracked weeds from the side of the road and choked them down. He vomited, but he cannot afford to lose the food. Now, he looks at the puddle. He doesn't think about it. He licks it off the ground, his stomach roiling in protest.

Somewhere, someone donates $1 to the End World Hunger Campaign.

In Taiz, Yemen, a woman lays prostrate on the road. She is done, she is spent. Everyone she has ever known is dead. Her husband, her children, her friends, her family. She has been tortured and raped and left for dead. She has given everything she has; she has wrapped orphaned children in her shawl and let starving men drink the milk of her breast. She has stolen food only to give it away and be punished for her crime. She is starving, lonely, diseased, dying, and done.

In that very place, someone taps her on the shoulder and asks to borrow a dollar.