I watched a married woman sell the last thing she owned so her little boy could breathe that night. Ten minutes later 

I had been called far worse than any of them.

But standing there in the pouring rain, three inhalers gripped in one hand and Emily Carter’s shattered iPhone in the other, my reputation was the last thing on my mind.

My attention was fixed on the little boy peeking out from behind his mother. AdoptionServices

He couldn’t have been older than six.

Tiny. Pale. Damp brown hair clung to his forehead. His chest pumped too quickly, every breath sounding like it had to claw its way through shards of glass.

Emily noticed the landlord staring beyond her.

She turned.

Her eyes met mine.