Ahead of him, beneath a canopy of rust and gold leaves, a tiny figure shuffled forward on bare feet, each step landing directly on freezing concrete. She couldn’t have been older than five. Her hair—once blond, maybe—was tangled into stiff knots, clinging to cheeks streaked with dried tears and dirt. Her sweatshirt swallowed her frame, sleeves hanging past her fingers, one shoulder constantly slipping down no matter how often she tugged it back up.
In her left hand, she dragged a ripped plastic bag filled with crushed cans, bent bottles, and scraps of things other people had thrown away without thinking twice.
And then Michael noticed what was strapped across her chest.
A faded blue T-shirt had been knotted into a crude sling, stretched diagonally from shoulder to waist. Inside it slept a baby—so small his head fit neatly beneath her chin. His skin looked pale, almost gray in the cold light of morning. His lips were cracked, his breath faint but steady, each exhale fogging the air just enough to be seen.
Michael felt his lungs lock.