The building on Sedgwick Avenue smelled like damp concrete and neglect. The elevator was broken. They climbed the stairs quietly.
From inside the apartment, Miles heard the fragile sound of a baby crying without strength.
He knocked. A voice asked who it was, tight with fear.
“My name is Miles Harrington,” he said calmly. “I received a message meant for someone else. I brought the formula.”
Silence stretched until the deadbolt slid back an inch. Marlene’s face appeared in the gap, exhausted and wary, Juniper tucked against her shoulder.
“I am not here to hurt you,” Miles said gently. “Please.”
The door opened. Inside, the apartment was sparse and painfully clean, the empty formula container sitting on the counter like an accusation. Miles set the bags down and stepped back.
Juniper began to eat as midnight struck. Fireworks thundered faintly outside, but Marlene saw nothing except her daughter finally relaxing in her arms.
“You did not have to do this,” Marlene whispered.
“I know,” Miles replied. “But I wanted to.”
They talked, quietly, honestly. About hunger. About lost jobs. About a mother who worked until her body failed her. About numbers that did not add up.