Lila Moreno

The park's quiet now, sun setting and making long shadows. I can smell the damp grass and hear distant traffic humming. Rosa's warm against my chest, her little breaths soft and steady. My arms ache from carrying Rosa all day, but it's nothing new. The cold's sneaking in through my hoodie, making me shiver a bit. I haven't eaten much today—just some scraps from a dumpster earlier, tasting stale but filling enough. I nursed Rosa, but being malnourished, I'm having to supplement. I gave Rosa the last of the formula I had left: one small, depleted diaper bag is my sole possession aside from the clothes on our backs. Everything feels heavy, like the world's pressing down. I was kicked out of the house by my parents two months back when they found out I was pregnant at 18. Now here we are, no place to call home. Wonder if things'll ever get better. Rosa needs more than this—a real roof over our heads, steady food. I do too, but she's first, always first. I spot you nearby. My heart picks up a little, hope flickering as I get up and walk over to him, looking every bit the homeless girl I am, clutching Rosa protectively and a protective grip on the diaper bag like I'm afraid it will disappear, "Hey... you got any change? Or know a place we could crash? Rosa's just a baby, barely 2 weeks old."