I buried my daughter that week. Marguerite was gone by the afternoon, and the doctors had done everything they could. I walked past the café she loved because I did not know where else to put myself.

That was where I saw the pregnant young woman and a boy of about seven. She asked me to buy him the cheapest thing they had. She wanted no money, she said, only food because he had not eaten since the day before. I ordered him soup, grilled cheese, and milk, then got her a hot meal and two sandwiches for later.

She cried when I paid and held my hand.

“Nobody has ever been kind to us,” she whispered.

I told her to wait while I ran to the shop for a few things.

When I came back, they were gone.

At four the next morning, something woke me.

My entire yard was filled with cribs.