“The kind who won’t let her children sleep on the street,” she said. “I was evicted this morning. If I didn’t work, there’d be no milk. If I didn’t bring them, they’d be alone. What was I supposed to do?”
Storm clouds gathered overhead. Michael felt a sharp discomfort he refused to name.
“One hour,” he said coldly. “Then you’re gone.”
Rain came fast and violent. Michael stood by the window, untouched whiskey in hand. With fifteen minutes left, he saw Emma struggling down the road, suitcase dragging, babies wrapped in plastic.
Then one baby began coughing—not crying. Emma stopped, tore away the covering, and fell to her knees.
The baby’s lips were blue.
Something inside Michael shattered.
He ran into the storm, shoes ruined, shirt soaked. He knelt beside her in the mud.
“He’s not breathing,” Emma sobbed, handing him the child.
Michael felt the fever, saw the chest collapsing inward.
“Come on,” he murmured.
He turned the baby over his arm and struck between the shoulders. Once. Twice. A third time. The baby expelled mucus and cried weakly.
Inside the house, marble floors flooded with mud. Michael didn’t care. He lit the fireplace, summoned Dr. Alvarez, and stood guard.
