KATY
George rushed out of the stairwell and hurried toward the shop. He needed to make it before closing—no one wanted supper without bread. By the entrance stood a little girl, no older than four, clutching a tiny dog to her chest.
“Auntie, please buy some bread for my puppy,” the child whispered, gazing hopefully at a woman stepping inside.
“Girl, where’s your mother? Why are you out so late? Go home!” the woman scolded before disappearing into the shop.
George, who’d been watching, stopped. The child’s expression was wretched, hollow. Unlike the woman, he knew—this wasn’t about the dog. The girl was hungry.
“Does your pup eat bread?” he asked softly, crouching beside her.
“Yes,” she piped up. “He loves sausages and sweets best. But when he’s hungry, he’ll take bread too.”
“Right,” George murmured. “Wait here—just a minute.”
Inside, he grabbed a loaf, then tossed in milk, yogurt, biscuits, sweets, and a pack of Cumberland sausages. As he queued, his own childhood flickered in his mind—his mother, a cleaner drowning in drink, his absent father. Some nights, he’d scour the playgrounds after dark, shining a torch into sandpits, hunting half-eaten biscuits. That look in the girl’s eyes—he’d worn it too.
Outside, he knelt before her. “Got some food for your pup. Do you live far?”
“No. That block there,” she said, pointing across the road.
“I’ll help carry it.”
Her face lit up. She skipped ahead, humming a tune George faintly recognised.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Katy,” she said. “And this is Benny.” She nodded to the trembling dog in her arms.
On the walk, she explained—Mum and Gran at home, Benny found alone on the street. George clung to hope: maybe Katy’s mum was just struggling, not cruel.
“Here’s my flat,” she said, gesturing to a second-floor window blaring music. “I won’t go in yet. Benny and I’ll eat out here.”
“Is your Gran home?” George pressed. It was nearly eleven.
“Yeah. She got her pension today. They’re drinking in the kitchen.” Katy scowled.
George hesitated. The estate was deserted. He couldn’t leave her.
“Go inside. Eat in your room, then sleep. It’s not safe out here. What if someone took Benny?”
Katy hugged the dog tighter. George walked her to the door, waited until it shut behind her, then left, his chest heavy. He’d thought times had changed—that social services cared. But nothing had.
Home, his wife, Claire, fretted over his lateness. Six months pregnant, her moods swung wildly. When she saw his face, she prodded. Over supper, he told her—Katy, Benny, the bruises under her sleeves.
“You did right,” Claire sighed. “But we can’t save every child. We’ve our own son coming.”
George knew she was right. Still, he hardly slept. Katy hadn’t left his thoughts.
A week later, returning from a stroll, they spotted her again—outside the shop, sobbing.
“Katy! What’s wrong?” George rushed over.
“Benny!” she hiccuped. “Some boys took him—went that way!”
“Stay here!” George sprinted off, returning minutes later with the dog. Claire had settled Katy on a bench, soothing her.
“Look! Uncle George found him!” Claire called. But then she stiffened. “George—her arms. Finger bruises. She said her mum did it. I’m calling the police.”
“Do it.”
Katy screamed as officers arrived, clawing at George. “You’re bad! I thought you were my friend!”
An officer carried her to the car. George sank onto the bench, Benny whining in his lap.
“I’m keeping him,” he growled.
“Alright,” Claire agreed. “But she’ll be safer in care.”
“Like hell you’d know about care homes,” he snapped.
They didn’t speak that night. Claire bathed Benny, cradling him. George stared out the kitchen window, guilt like a stone in his throat.
Later, Claire appeared. “George… what if we took her in?”
His breath caught. “You mean that?”
“What if they won’t let us? She’s got a mother.”
“She’ll be ours,” he said fiercely.
Three months later, George arrived at the care home. Katy was playing outside when she spotted him.
“George! Are you taking me home today?”
“Yes. Today!” He grinned.
“Why didn’t Mummy Claire come?”
“She’s waiting with your baby brother.”
“And Benny? Is he there too?”
“Of course. You’re his best friend.”
Driving home, George’s heart felt light. They’d won custody. He knew they couldn’t save every child—but they’d saved one.
His children would never starve. They’d never dig through sandpits for scraps.
