Alexander pressed himself against the wall, curling around the babies, becoming a human shield.
I stood frozen—until I heard the gravelly voice of Chief of Security, Frank Rogers, over the radio:
—Nothing here. Just trash. But Mrs. Whitmore wants the old wall checked.
Two minutes. Maybe less.
And then I saw it.
The industrial laundry cart—gray canvas, reinforced wheels—parked near the service entrance. Guards hated checking dirty laundry. The rich hated anything that reminded them how they stayed rich.
Running wasn’t the way out.
Going back inside was.
—Don’t move —I whispered fiercely to Alexander. —You’re not dying here.
He stared at me like I was insane.
—We’re going to become garbage —I said. —And we’re going to crash Eleanor Whitmore’s party.
Rogers’ boots crunched closer.
I pushed the cart to the wall. Alexander dragged himself forward, pride reduced to ash. I placed the babies inside first, one by one, nesting them in dirty tablecloths. Then, with raw strength and rage, I hauled him in.
He cried out in pain. I slapped my hand over his mouth.
—Please —I begged. —Not for you. For them.
I covered him with towels, sheets, stained uniforms—burying him in the filth of the banquet.