Her brown eyes darted over him—badge, radio, holster—and her grip tightened on the bag. Michael recognized that look immediately. It wasn’t fear of a stranger.
It was fear of authority.
He stayed where he was, lowering himself slightly so he didn’t tower over her. He didn’t speak right away. A gust of wind rattled the trees, and her shoulders trembled as she adjusted the sling.
The baby’s breathing was shallow but steady.
Michael thought of his own daughter, six years old, warm at home, probably arguing with cartoons and snacks. The contrast hit him like ice.
When he finally asked her name, her voice was barely audible.
She told him—slowly, carefully—that she and the baby were living behind the old laundromat. The baby was her brother. Their mother had gone out to find food.
She hadn’t come back.
That had been three nights ago.
She said she’d been trying to keep her brother warm, feeding him whatever she could find, wrapping him in scraps of cloth. Someone once told her bottles could be traded for money, so she started collecting them.
Michael felt his throat tighten.