“Do you hear that crying?” she addressed the random people who were following her in.
“I don’t hear anything,” one man brushed off.
Another woman shook her head: “Probably your imagination…”
But Christina was sure she had heard something real. She decided to follow the sound. Venturing a little deeper into the nook between the garbage chute and the stairwell—where old furniture was usually piled up—she noticed a small bundle. And from there, indeed—a barely audible little child’s voice, crying. Her heart froze; she leaned over and carefully lifted the edge of a blanket. What she saw shook her to the core: an infant, a little one, perhaps only a week old at most. Its cheeks were pale, lips blue from the cold or—God forbid—malnourishment.
“Oh my God,” she breathed, feeling her hands tremble.
