The worn sweater.
“Why are you telling me this?” I asked.
His face changed then—less polished, more ashamed.
“Because Marilyn is sick. The boy is sick. And because when I got to that house, the first thing Lucy said was, ‘The lady from the store bought us food.’”
Lucy.
So now the little girl had a name.
Daniel looked at me and said quietly, “You were kind to my daughter before I even knew she was mine. Right now, Marilyn trusts you more than she trusts me. I need help.”
