**Katie**
George dashed out of the building and rushed toward the corner shop. He was in a hurry to make it before closing—no one fancied dinner without bread. Just outside the shop stood a little girl, no more than four, clutching an equally tiny dog to her chest.
“Miss, could you buy my puppy some bread, please?” she whispered, looking hopefully at a woman just stepping inside.
“Love, where’s your mum? Why are you out so late? Go home!” the woman said sternly before disappearing into the shop.
George, who’d been watching, stopped. The child’s eyes were sad and lost. Unlike that woman, he knew—this wasn’t about the dog. The girl was hungry, asking for food for herself.
“Does your pup actually eat bread?” he grinned, stepping closer.
“Yeah,” she nodded quickly. “Well, he *prefers* sausage and sweets. But when he’s really hungry, he’ll have bread.”
“Right,” George said, sighing. “Wait here a tick, I’ll be quick.”
Inside, he grabbed a loaf, then tossed in milk, yoghurt, biscuits, sweets, and some Cumberland sausage. As he queued, his own childhood flashed back—his mum, more fond of the bottle than parenting, his absent father. He remembered days without food, scouring playgrounds after dark with a torch, digging through sandpits for half-eaten biscuits. He’d had that same look in his eyes—the helpless, hollow stare of hunger. The girl outside wore it now.
Bag in hand, he crouched beside her. “Got your pup some grub. You live far?”
“No. That house over there,” she pointed at a red-brick terrace across the road.
“Come on, I’ll help carry it.”
Her face lit up instantly. Skipping ahead, she hummed a tune George vaguely recognised.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Katie,” she said. “And this is my mate, Buster.” She nodded at the dog.
As they walked, she explained she lived with her mum and gran. Buster was a stray she’d adopted. George hoped he was wrong—maybe her mum was just struggling, not negligent.
“Here’s my place,” Katie gestured to a second-floor window blaring music into the street. “I’m not going in. We’ll eat out here.”
“Is your gran home?” George asked. It was nearly eleven—no place for a kid.
“Yeah. She got her pension today. They’re drinking in the kitchen,” Katie muttered, scowling.
George froze. The street was empty, dark. He couldn’t leave her. “Take Buster inside, eat, and go to bed. It’s not safe out here. Someone might snatch him.”
Katie hugged Buster tighter. George walked her to the door, waited until she went in, then trudged home, his mood sour. He’d thought times had changed—that social services actually *did* something. Turns out, no. Same as ever.
His wife, Stacey, tore into him the moment he stepped in. Dinner was cold, she’d been frantic—six months pregnant, her moods swung like a pendulum. Seeing his face, she softened. “What’s up?”
Over dinner, he told her about Katie and Buster.
“Good on you,” Stacey sighed. “But love, there’s loads like her. We can’t save them all. We’ve our own lad coming soon.”
George knew she was right. Yet that night, he barely slept. Katie had lodged in his heart.
A week later, returning from a walk, they spotted Katie again—sobbing hysterically outside the shop.
“Katie! What’s wrong?” George crouched beside her.
“They took Buster!” she hiccuped. “Some boys snatched him—went that way!”
“Stay here!” George sprinted off.
Five minutes later, he returned with Buster. Stacey, now soothing Katie on a bench, gasped. “George, look—bruises on her arms, her cheek. She says her mum ‘disciplined’ her yesterday. I’m calling the police.”
“Do it,” George agreed.
Katie clung to him, begging, “Don’t let them take me! You’re my *friend*!”
He felt like a traitor but knew she couldn’t stay there.
The police arrived fast. Stacey insisted they intervene.
“You’re *horrible*!” Katie screamed at George, thrashing as an officer lifted her. “Give Buster back!”
The car drove off. George sat numb on the bench, Buster trembling in his arms.
“I’m *not* abandoning him,” he growled.
“Fine. We’ll keep him,” Stacey said. “She’ll be better off in care, love.”
“What do *you* know about care?” he snapped. “Sorry, but you’ve no idea.”
They didn’t speak all evening. Stacey bathed Buster, cuddling him. George stared out the kitchen window, guilt like a stone in his chest.
“George… I can’t stop thinking about her,” Stacey admitted later.
“Don’t cry. You can’t stress now.”
“What if… we took her?” she whispered.
George’s heart leapt. “You *mean* that?”
“What if they won’t let us? She’s got a mum.”
“They *will*,” he said firmly. “I’ve got contacts.”
Three months later, George arrived at the care home. Katie was outside, playing.
“George!” She barrelled into him. “Are you taking me today?”
“Yeah. Today!” He laughed, giddy.
“Why didn’t Stacey come?”
“Mum’s waiting at home. You’ve got a baby brother now.”
“And Buster? Is he there?”
“‘Course! He’s missed you.”
Driving home, George felt lighter. They’d done it—got guardianship. He couldn’t save every kid, but he’d made *one* childhood better than his own.
No more hunger. No more searching sandpits for scraps.
