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.”