Chapter 2 - The Interception
The room seemed to pause, suspended in the thick, suffocating air of the kitchen. Flour dust hovered in the beam of light cutting through the window, and blood was already dripping from the foster mother’s brow, splashing onto the yellow rubber glove she held against her face.
Her husband didn't look at her bleeding forehead. He didn't look at the stone mortar lying on the floor.
His eyes locked onto the screaming baby, and then onto his wife’s hands.
“Arthur, stop her!” the foster mother, Brenda, shrieked, her voice cracking with wild hysteria. “She’s crazy! She attacked me with the mortar! She tried to steal him!”
Arthur didn't listen to her. With two massive strides, he closed the distance between them. But instead of grabbing me, his large, calloused hands slammed down on Brenda’s wrists.
“Let go of the child, Brenda,” Arthur said. His voice wasn't raised, but it carried a cold, terrifying authority that made the air in the room drop ten degrees.
“She saw it!” Brenda screamed, twisting violently away from him. “Arthur, she raised the colander! She saw his leg!”
“I said give him to me!” Arthur roared.
He yanked her arms down with brute force. Brenda stumbled backward, her grip slipping from the fleece blanket. For one horrifying second, the baby was falling.
My instincts took over before my brain could process the danger. I lunged forward, sliding across the flour-covered linoleum, and caught the infant against my chest a split second before he hit the ground. The impact sent a sharp jolt of pain up my spine, but I held him tight, shielding his head with my elbow as I scrambled toward the far side of the kitchen island.
The baby was sobbing, his tiny chest heaving against mine. I curled my body around him, backing into the narrow space between the refrigerator and the pantry door.
“Stay back!” I yelled, my voice trembling but sharp. My cheek throbbed violently where Brenda had smashed me into the cabinet, and my left eye was already swelling shut, but I didn't care. “Don't touch him!”
Arthur stood over his wife. Brenda was on her knees, wiping blood from her eyes, panting like a cornered animal.
“You ruined it,” Brenda hissed, glaring up at her husband with pure venom. “You were supposed to keep her upstairs! You were supposed to give me ten minutes!”
“She heard the baby crying, Brenda!” Arthur snapped, pulling a cell phone from his pocket. “You told me you were just going to weigh him!”
“He was wearing the wrong tag!” she screamed back, completely unravelling. “The buyer comes at eight! Look at his ankle! If they see that mark, the whole deal is off!”
Buyer.
The word echoed in my ears like a gunshot. My stomach turned to lead. This wasn't just neglect. This wasn't an accident or a strange domestic breakdown.
This was a sale.
I pressed my back harder against the wall, cradling the baby’s tiny head against my neck. I looked down at his exposed leg. The red pressure ring around his ankle was glowing inflamed and hot against his pale skin. Beside the red ring, near the heel, was a faint black stamp—a numerical code printed directly onto his skin in waterproof ink.
Arthur dialed three numbers on his phone and pressed it to his ear.
“What are you doing?!” Brenda shrieked, scrambling up from the floor and grabbing his shirt. “Arthur, don't you dare call them!”
“It’s over, Brenda,” Arthur said coldly, pushing her off him. “The girl saw everything. Look at her face. Look at your head. You think we can cover this up now?” He spoke into the receiver. “I need police and an ambulance at 414 Maple Drive. Immediately. We have an injured infant and an assault in progress.”
May you like
Brenda stared at him in disbelief. Then her eyes darted from Arthur to me, and finally to the back door leading out to the garage.
She didn't apologize. She didn't look at the baby one last time. Without a single word, she turned on her heel, ripped off her blood-splattered yellow glove, and bolted through the back door into the rain.
