The formula can was empty. Clara Whitmore shook it one more time as if hoping might make something appear. Nothing did. She set it down on the counter of her studio apartment in the Bronx where the overhead light had been flickering for 3 days because she couldn’t afford a new bulb. In her arms, 8-month-old Lily whimpered.
That quiet, exhausted cry of a baby too hungry to scream anymore. I know, sweetheart. Clara’s voice cracked. Mom’s working on it. Outside, fireworks popped in the distance. New Year’s Eve. The whole world was celebrating, counting down to midnight, making resolutions about gym memberships and vacations and all the things people worried about when they weren’t wondering how to feed their children.
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