It wasn’t the traffic or the noise that caught his attention, but a young woman hurrying past with a baby clutched tightly to her chest. She didn’t carry him with calm confidence, but with the rigid fear of someone afraid he could be taken—or of someone who still couldn’t believe he was really hers.
Every few steps, she glanced over her shoulder. When people got too close, she veered away, holding the baby tighter. Michael wasn’t prone to distraction. He was used to moving through the city with purpose. Still, something about her didn’t fit—the urgency, the tension, the way protection came more from determination than instinct.
Without fully deciding to, he followed at a distance. The woman stopped outside a pharmacy and froze, biting her lip, rocking the baby as if standing before a judge. Michael watched her reflection from across the street.
Inside, he heard her ask the pharmacist, “Please… I need something for a baby’s fever.”
“How old?” the man asked flatly.
She hesitated, searching the baby’s face. “About… three months. I think.”
“You think?” the pharmacist said, suspicious.
“He hasn’t stopped crying,” she rushed, avoiding the question.