It was near closing time, that quiet stretch of the night when the store feels half-asleep and every customer stands out more than they should. I was behind the counter, counting down the last hour, when the door chimed and she rushed in—too fast, too tense, like she was already running out of time before she even spoke.
She had a child in her arms, maybe three or four years old, wrapped in a thin blanket despite the warm air inside. The kid’s face was flushed, eyes glassy, small whimpers slipping out between uneven breaths. It didn’t take a medical degree to see something wasn’t right.
