Chapter 1 - THE EMPTY CANAt 11:58 p.m., my checking account balance sat at an abysmal $3.18, the last container of infant formula was completely empty, and my seven-month-old daughter was crying from desperate, hollow hunger.
Sophie’s face had turned a furious, mottled red from screaming, but the sound coming from her throat was growing thin and weak.
That frightened me far more than the crying itself, because exhausted babies do not always have enough physical strength left to keep protesting. I pulled her trembling body tight against my chest, kissing her damp forehead and whispering wild, desperate promises I had no earthly idea how to keep.
My temporary call-center paycheck wouldn’t arrive until Thursday, and it was only Tuesday night. Every credit card in my wallet was maxed out to the absolute limit—a heavy anchor left over from the six long weeks Sophie had spent fighting for her tiny life inside the neonatal intensive care unit.
Worse still, my old sedan had broken down two days earlier with a blown alternator. The nearest open grocery store was four long miles away through freezing, icy Indianapolis streets. And even if I managed to carry her through the sub-zero wind chill, I didn't have enough money to buy the formula waiting on the shelf.
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Three hours earlier, I had scraped the final powdery residue from the bottom of the empty can and mixed a bottle significantly smaller than usual. I had been desperately tempted to add extra water to stretch it out, but my years working as a certified nursing assistant had drilled a vital lesson into my brain: watering down infant formula could cause fatal electrolyte imbalances.
I had fed Sophie the last safe bottle, held her close, and prayed she would somehow sleep until morning. But hunger had woken her before midnight. And this time, there was nothing left to give her.
