When the baby cried again, Lily recognized the sound instantly—hunger. She stopped under the awning of a closed store and counted her coins, everything she’d earned over days of scavenging. Money she’d saved for food, for warmth. She looked at the baby and sighed. “You win.”
At the all-night pharmacy, the clerk scowled at her. “We don’t give handouts.”
“I’m buying,” she said, showing her damp coins.
Formula was expensive. She chose the smallest can, the cheapest bottle. At the counter, she counted carefully.
She was short fifty cents.
The clerk reached to take the items back—then stopped. He shoved them toward her. “Go.”
That night, inside her cardboard shelter, Lily fed the baby. He drank greedily, as if his life depended on it. She held him close, staying awake, watching him sleep.
At dawn, she walked for hours toward the hills, toward the Reynolds estate. When she arrived, she froze. Decorations. Guests. An elegant sign welcomed baby Oliver Reynolds.
A celebration.
Anger burned away her fear. She climbed the wall, slipped through the garden, and looked through a window.