She tucked the chain into her pocket like a promise and began the long walk toward the city. She had no car, no family, and no home. She had only the absolute certainty that this baby would not die tonight. Not while she was there.
Soon, the baby began to cry again—this time from hunger. Dana knew that sound all too well. She stopped under the awning of a closed shop and counted her money: crumpled coins and bills saved up over days of scavenging. She had been saving for socks. A hot burger. To feel human for a moment.
She looked at the baby’s searching lips. She squeezed the money tight. “You win,” she whispered.
She stepped into a twenty-four-hour pharmacy. The warm air hit her face, and the clerk looked up, suspicion quickly turning to disgust. “Out. We don’t give handouts. Get out before I call the cops.” “I’m not asking,” Dana said, shielding the baby with her body. “I’m buying. I have money.” She opened her wet palm.
After a long pause, the clerk pointed toward the back. “The formula is over there. Don’t make a mess.” The prices felt like a punch to the chest. The large tin—impossible. The medium—no. She found the smallest, cheapest one. It would cost everything. Her stomach growled as she saw a pack of cookies nearby. For a second, she almost chose herself. Then the baby whimpered.
Dana swallowed hard. “You can wait,” she told her stomach. At the register, she counted out every coin. She was fifty cents short. Panic robbed her of breath. The clerk sighed and reached out to take the items back—then he stopped. Perhaps it was the baby’s soft whimper. Perhaps it was Dana’s face—so young it hurt to look at. “Forget it,” he muttered, pushing the items toward her. “Just take it. Go.”
The Confrontation
That night, in her cardboard refuge, Dana fed the baby. He drank as if his life depended on it—because it did. The baby fell asleep. Dana did not. She gripped the silver chain tightly. “Tomorrow,” she whispered, “we’re going to that big house. And I’m going to get answers.”
By morning, the rain had ceased. Dana walked for hours to the hills where the wealthy lived. When she finally reached the Harrison mansion, it wasn’t the beauty that shocked her—it was the party. Flowers. Luxury cars. Music. A banner read: WELCOME HOME, LIAM HARRISON.