When the price was named, she counted out coins and worn bills, her hands shaking.
“I only have twenty-two dollars. Please.”
“No discounts,” the pharmacist replied.
Michael felt an old memory stir—hunger, shame. He placed money on the counter.
“I’ll cover it.”
She spun around, panic flashing across her face. “No—I’m fine.”
“It’s paid,” he said gently.
She took the medicine, whispered thanks, and rushed out, not like someone guilty of a crime, but like someone ashamed of needing to exist.
Michael followed again, farther back this time. She turned into a grayer part of the city and entered a small boarding house. From the street, through a cracked window, he saw her change. Inside, she moved with tenderness—warming water, laying the baby in a box lined with blankets, singing softly, like a prayer meant only for him.
Why the fear outside, and the love inside?
Michael spoke to the landlady, Mrs. Alvarez, who crossed her arms protectively.
“You mean Sarah?” she said. “She’s quiet. Pays on time. Too young for a burden like that.”
“Is the baby hers?” Michael asked carefully.
“That’s what she says,” Mrs. Alvarez replied. “And she loves him like her life depends on it.”