Her voice broke on the last word. This tiny child was carrying the weight of the world.
“Emily, I’m going to buy that formula. But I need you to wait right here by my bike. Can you do that?”
She nodded frantically, pressing the bag of quarters into my hands. I didn’t take it.
“Keep your money. I’ve got this.”
Inside the store, I grabbed formula, bottles, water, and as much ready-to-eat food as I could carry. The clerk watched nervously.
“That girl been here before?” I asked quietly.
“Past three nights,” he admitted. “Different people each time, begging for formula. Last night she tried to buy it herself but I couldn’t. Policy says—”
“You turned away a child trying to buy baby formula?”
He stammered something about calling CPS. About not having an address.
I slammed cash on the counter and walked out.
