Chapter 1 - The Weight of Hunger
By the time the third passenger asked to be moved out of first class, one of the newborns had cried himself so weak that his voice barely sounded human anymore.
That was the sound that made me stand up.
Not the angry businessman snapping at the attendant.
Not the woman in pearls complaining that she had paid nearly six hundred dollars for peace and quiet.
Not even the elderly man who removed his hearing aids and still looked miserable.
It was the smallest baby.
The one behind the smoked-glass privacy door at the rear of the car.
His scream had changed from furious to exhausted, and every part of me that had learned motherhood the hard way understood what that meant.
He was hungry.
Desperately hungry.
And whoever was holding him had run out of answers.
I closed the paperback in my lap.
Stay out of it, Mara.
My seven-month-old daughter, Lila, was home in Queens with my younger sister. I had seventy-three dollars in checking, an electric bill with a red notice folded inside my purse, and a job interview in Washington that I had already missed because the train left New York late.
I had enough problems.
I didn't need somebody else's.
Then the privacy door opened another six inches.
And I saw Roman Vale.
Even people who avoided newspapers knew his name.
Publicly, Roman Vale owned one of the largest private transportation networks on the East Coast, along with trucking companies, warehouses, private security firms, and enough commercial real estate to make city officials return his calls before their own families'.
Privately, there were other stories.
Stories about Crown Street.
Stories about Harbor Row.
Stories about men who stopped smiling when Roman Vale entered a restaurant.
My father used to call him the kind of man whose handshake probably came with consequences.
But the man I saw inside that compartment did not look dangerous.
He looked terrified.
Roman sat with a tiny infant against his chest, one hand behind the baby's head, the other pressing a bottle toward his mouth.
"Come on, Jude," he whispered.
The baby turned his face away and wailed.
"Please, son."
Please.
That word sounded wrong coming from a man like Roman Vale.
Next to him, two more newborns screamed from a triple stroller.
The table looked like the aftermath of a feeding-store robbery.
Different formulas.
Different nipples.
Bottled water.
Burp cloths.
Pacifiers.
A digital thermometer.
Three tiny hats.
Nothing was working.
A broad-shouldered man in a charcoal suit stood near the compartment door with a phone to his ear.
"We're twenty-eight minutes from Washington," he said. "Kincaid's people are already waiting."
Roman never looked up.
"We're not meeting him."
The man lowered the phone.
"Roman."
"My sons haven't eaten."
"We have spent nine months negotiating this."
Roman finally lifted his head.
"So?"
"If you don't appear, Silas Kincaid will take it as weakness."
"Then he can be disappointed."
"He'll move on the ports."
"Let him."
"And the trucking contracts?"
"Let him."
The other man's jaw tightened.
"You don't mean that."
Roman looked down at the baby trembling in his arms.
"I have men who can close a highway in ten minutes. I have lawyers who can keep a case alive until everyone involved dies of old age. I can buy buildings, companies, elections, whatever people think power looks like."
His voice dropped.
"Pero none of it can make my son eat."
Something inside me broke.
Before motherhood, I might have thought hunger was just hunger.
Then I had Lila.
I learned there were different cries.
Only.
Wet Mm.
Gas.
Pain.
Overtired.
Hungry.
And then there was the cry that happened when hunger had lasted too long.
My body that recognized one before my brain gave permission.
I stood.
The bodyguard noticed immediately.
"Ma'am."
"I think I can help."
No.
"I haven't even said how."
"You can tell the attendant."
"I don't need the attendant."
He stepped between me and the door.
"Return to your seat."
Then Roman looked up.
Our eyes met.
He had dark hair that looked as though he'd been running his hands through it for days, a black dress shirt wrinkled at the sleeves, and the hollow expression of a person whose body forgotten had what sleep was.
He stared at me.
I looked at the crying baby.
Then at the other two.
My mouth went dry.
"I'm breastfeeding my daughter."
The guard's face changed.
Roman didn't move.
I forced myself to keep talking.
"She's seven months old. My supply is fine."
No one in the compartment spoke.
Behind me, even the first-class passengers seemed quieter.
"If your babies can't tolerate formula right now," I said, "I might be able to feed one."
Roman beach slowly.
He was taller than I'd expected.
Under other circumstances, maybe afraid.
At that moment he only looked confused.
"You're offering to nurse my son?"
My cheeks burned.
"When you say it like that, I sound insane."
"You approached a compartment with armed security."
"That part was probably insane."
The man beside him almost smiled.
Roman didn't.
"Why?"
I hated it.
"Why what?"
"Why would you do that?"
Another weak sound came from Jude.
I looked at him.
"Because he's hungry."
Roman stared at me for another second.
Then his phone came out.
He dialed.
"Dr. Leland."
He listened.
"I need an answer, not a lecture."
Pause.
"No fever. They're responsive. Wet diapers are down but not absent."
His gaze stayed on me.
"A healthy nursing mother has offered breast milk."
Another pause.
I folded my arms.
"Tell her I don't smoke, I haven't had alcohol today, I'm not taking prescription medication, and my prenatal and postpartum bloodwork were normal."
Roman repeated it.
The conversation lasted another minute.
Then he hung up.
May you like
"She says that under the circumstances, with informed consent and a medical examination when we arrive, using screened donor milk would normally be preferable, but feeding is the priority."
"That's doctor language for yes?"
