She was turning back toward her shelter—a cardboard structure hidden in an alley—when she heard it. Not thunder. Not a truck. Something smoother. Richer. The low hum of a luxury engine rolling across the landfill road.
Lily froze. Night had rules, and none of them involved people like that showing up for good reasons. She slipped behind a stack of tires and curled into herself, barely breathing.
Headlights sliced through the rain. A spotless black car stopped nearby, unreal against the filth. The lights went out. A door opened.
A woman stepped into the rain, wrapped in a long coat, her dark hair plastered to her face. She moved nervously, clutching a bundle to her chest. Lily felt a chill deeper than cold.
The woman glanced around, stopped near a hollow between piles of waste, hesitated, murmured something Lily couldn’t hear—and then let the bundle fall. She covered it with bags and a soggy box, ran back to the car, and sped away.
Lily waited, counting heartbeats. Curiosity battled fear. Need won.
She approached, pushed the trash aside, and lifted the box. Beneath it lay a fine wool blanket. She touched it.
It was warm.
And it moved.