Alma tightened the screw in the door before checking the drag on the wooden floors. It glided now rather than scraping her already scratched floor. She sighed, content at a job well-done. 

Good. One thing checked off the list.

When she stood, her hip popped and her knees creaked. “Oh, oh. My, we’re getting old aren’t we, Ginger,” she asks the orange cat at her heels. She just looks up at her with her golden eyes sleepily, purring. “Yes, old women like us are tougher than we look. What a wonderful compliment. Much more sturdy than old men.” 

Her gaze wafts over to the urn above her mantle and her heart gives a sad squeeze. Her Miller had been the kindest, most patient man she’d ever known. But with that soft heart came easy sickness. 

“Yes. Quite fragile creatures.” For a moment she is lost to time and emotion. Precious memories long since passed. When a clap of thunder snaps her from her thoughts, her smile is quick to return, if not a little weaker. “Well, I think it’s time to work on the stew, don’t you?” 

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Ginger rubs along her leg in response.

Just as she makes it to the cutting board, there’s a loud crashing sound outside. The yellow curtains are pushed back as she peers through the heavy rain out to her chicken coop. “Those rat pixies. I swear, I lose more eggs to those greedy things than anything else.”

Grumbling, she makes her way out to the coop. Feathers lay about, where she was sure her girls had put up a fight. Under the protection of the overhang, she could see just inside the inky blackness. There, lay in the heap of hay with Merdle standing triumphantly on its chest was a child. 

“Oh, lord,” Alma whispers, clambering into the small space. There was just enough room for her as she bent her shoulders forward. At her age, she’d taken to paying the young children in town with sweets to collect her eggs for her, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t capable. 

As she knelt down, she examined the child with held breath. They were unresponsive to her but their breathing was steady. They wore a torn and stained shirt, dirty pants and no shoes. Their ears were long and pointed. The right one looked as if it had been cut. Egg shells stuck to their mouth and chin.

Poor baby. Must be starving. 

“This won’t do. Merdle, honey, move. I’m taking this baby inside.” And with time, effort, and the wheelbarrow just outside, she did.