Chapter 3

Her temperature hits 103.6.

I run to the ER holding her.

Registration.

Waiting room.

My whole body's shaking.

I'm wheezing by the time I reach the desk.

My legs burn.

The doctor lowers his stethoscope.

Frowns.

"This baby is severely malnourished. Underweight. Immune system's shot."

He looks up at me，voice is sharp.

"This is dangerous for a newborn. What the hell are you two doing as parents?"

His eyes go over my body, then back to my baby.

"You're clearly not starving."

My mouth opens.

Nothing comes out.

What are we doing.

Her whole diet is bargain-bin formula.

Mine is a crate of ramen and Spam.

What am I supposed to feed her with?

I call Dante.

And unbelievably — he shows up.

Something stupid inside me lights up.

Hope.

Three years of marriage.First time I've ever begged him for anything.

"She needs special formula. And supplements. Please. Just — stop with the mystery boxes. Give me real food. Give me real money. Just for her."

He stares at me for a beat.

Reaches into his jacket.

Tosses a card at me.

"Two grand on it. That's plenty."

"It's not enough. The doctor said she needs follow-ups and—"

His voice drops.

Ice-cold.

"Eleanor Rossi. $1.88 million wasn't enough to fill your gut. Now two grand's too little?"

"Should've thought about today when you set up that mystery box scam to rob me."

"I didn't do the mystery box thing!"

For my daughter, I finally scream it out loud.

"Frank and Carol did it behind my back! For Sophie's fresh start! Her damn condo down payment! I had nothing to do with it!"

Dante freezes for one second.

Then he laughs.

"Eleanor Rossi. For a couple bucks, you'll lie about anything, huh?"

"Lie the baby's sick. Now spinning fairy tales about Frank and Carol."

He looks down at me.

Pure disgust in his eyes.

"Don't think popping out a kid gave you leverage. Is the baby even really sick? You think I don't see the angle you're playing?"

His phone rings.

Screen lights up.

"Sophie."

He picks up.

Voice goes soft in a snap.

"You made it? Which room? I'm on my way."

He hangs up.

Doesn't even glance at me.

Walks out.

Turns out he wasn't at the hospital for us.

He was here to take Sophie's kid to a wellness check.

I stand in the hallway holding my screaming baby, watching his back disappear around the corner.

Outside the hospital.

"Ellie."

Sophie's voice behind me.

Her baby's in her arms — plump, pink, dressed head to toe in designer.

She glances at my thin, yellow-tinted daughter.

Something flickers in her eyes.

Then she reaches into her nanny's diaper bag and pulls out a can of formula.

Hands it to me.

"My baby doesn't finish these. You take it."

"Dante feels so bad for us poor little single moms. Bought us like a hundred cases."

She looks me over.

"And maybe eat a little less of those boxes, okay? You're busting out of that shirt."

I look at the can.

$180 apiece.

A whole month of my daughter's food costs less than one can of her cousin's.

I dig my nails into my palm.

And I take the handout.

That night I call Carol.

"Carol. The baby needs to be admitted. Can you lend me some cash. Just for a few days."

Silence on the line.

A few seconds.

"Sophie just had a baby too, she needs the money. Go ask your husband! It's one can of formula! He won't say no!"

"Carol—"

"Enough. Stop calling. Sophie's resting. You're gonna wake her."

Click.

Late at night, I fall asleep on the couch holding my daughter.

Somewhere in the middle of the night, a blanket ends up over me.

Half-conscious, I see Dante bending down.

Gentle.

Like he's afraid to wake something.

But the next morning, there's a fresh stack of mystery boxes on the kitchen table.

My back and knees scream when I stand up.My feet are so swollen I can barely bend my ankles.

He's sitting across from me, drinking his black coffee.

Eyes flick over my body.

He snorts.Tips his chin at the boxes.

"Pick one."

I look at the boxes.

And I just feel — done.

"Dante. I'm tired. I'm not picking anymore."

His coffee cup pauses mid-air.

His eyes come up.

Suspicious.

"What's the new hustle? Kid was sick last time. What's the play now?"

I don't answer.

I get up.

Go mix the can of formula Sophie tossed me like scraps.

My phone buzzes in my pocket.

Lindsey.

"El. There's something I don't know if I should tell you..."

Three dots.

She's still typing.

In the living room, my daughter's crying again.

The thermometer beeps.

Numbers jump.

104.2.

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