"We can't feed her," the thin woman hissed as they set the bundle down. "She's too small," the man said. "We take her, we slow. We die." "Then leave her," the woman snapped. "One less mouth." They argued in half sentences, fingers wrapped around straps, eyes darting to the ruined skyline. The highway behind them was a ribbon of baked tar and smashed cars. The bundle lay in the ditch, wrapped in grimy cloth that had once been someone’s shirt. "Sorry," the woman mouthed to the quiet baby, then they stepped away. A tire crunched. A shadow moved like a fallen statue through the heat haze. "Leave," the man said again, and his boots kicked at gravel as if it could bury guilt. The baby stirred. She made a small sound that was not a cry yet. Her fist opened and closed. A big hand hovered over the bundle, then withdrew. The hand belonged to nobody human. Vicente Bates breathed—an off sound that was more rasp than inhale. He touched the cloth with a fingertip that had dirt under a nail that could not be washed out. He smelled hot sun and old bone. "Little warm," he said, the words awkward and thick. The baby reached without thinking and curled her tiny fingers around the joint of his index finger. She smelled of sweat and milk and copper. Vicente's jaw locked. A sound came out; it might have been a laugh in a world where