George rushed out of the block of flats and hurried towards the corner shop. He needed to get there before closing time—no one fancies dinner without bread. At the entrance stood a little girl, no older than four, clutching a tiny dog to her chest.
“Auntie, could you please buy my puppy some bread?” she asked softly, looking up hopefully at a woman walking in.
“Where’s your mum, love? Why are you out so late? Go home!” the woman scolded before disappearing inside.
George, who’d been watching, paused. The girl’s eyes were sad, hollow—he knew this wasn’t just about the dog. Unlike that woman, he guessed the child was actually hungry herself.
“Does your pup eat bread, then?” George smiled, stepping closer.
“Oh yes,” she nodded eagerly. “He loves sausages and sweets best. But when he’s really hungry, he’ll have bread too.”
“Right,” George sighed. “Wait here a tick—I’ll be quick.”
Inside, he grabbed a loaf, then tossed in milk, yoghurt, biscuits, sweets, and some Cumberland sausage. Queuing up, his mind flicked back to his own childhood. His mum had been fond of the bottle; his dad was just a rumour. There’d been days without food—times when her cleaner’s wages vanished into a week-long bender. He remembered scouring playgrounds after dark, a torch beam sweeping sandpits for forgotten biscuits… That helpless hunger in his own eyes once. And now, this little girl had it too.
Back outside, he hesitated. The bag was too heavy for her, especially with the trembling pup in her arms.
“I got your dog some bits. Do you live far?”
“Just there,” she pointed to a block of flats across the road.
“Come on, I’ll help carry it.”
Her face lit up. Skipping ahead, she hummed a tune George vaguely recognised.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Maisie,” she said. “And this is my mate, Buster.” She patted the dog.
On the walk, she chattered—lived with her mum and nan. Found Buster straying just weeks ago. George hoped he was wrong—maybe her mum was decent, just skint.
“That’s ours,” Maisie gestured to a second-floor window blaring music into the night. “I’m not going in yet. We’ll eat out here.”
“Is your nan home?” George pressed. It was nearly eleven—no place for a kid.
“Yeah. She got her pension today. They’re drinking in the kitchen,” Maisie muttered.
George’s stomach dropped. The street was empty, dark. He couldn’t leave her. “You and Buster go up, have your tea, and get to bed. It’s not safe out here. Someone might pinch him.”
Maisie shook her head, hugging Buster tighter. George walked her to the door, watched her slip inside, then headed home, fists clenched. He’d thought things were different now—that social services actually did their jobs. Turns out, nothing’s changed.
Charlotte was waiting, sharp-tongued from worry. Dinner was cold; she’d been glued to the window, fearing the worst. Six months pregnant, her moods swung like a pendulum—George was used to it. Seeing his face, she prodded until the story spilled out.
“You did right, helping her,” Charlotte sighed over supper. “But there’s thousands like her—we can’t save them all. Especially with our boy coming.”
Logically, she was right. But that night, sleep wouldn’t come. Maisie’s face stuck in his mind.
A week later, returning from a stroll, they spotted her again—this time sobbing by the shop.
“Maisie! What’s happened?” George crouched beside her.
“They took Buster!” she hiccuped. “Some boys grabbed him—went that way!”
“Stay here!” George sprinted off, returning minutes later with the pup. Charlotte, now comforting Maisie on a bench, gasped. “She’s got bruises—her arms, her cheek. Said her mum ‘disciplined’ her yesterday. I’m calling the police.”
“Do it,” George agreed.
Maisie clung to his neck, begging not to be handed over. He felt like a traitor—but she couldn’t stay in that hell.
Officers arrived swiftly. Charlotte insisted they intervene.
“You’re horrible!” Maisie screamed at George. “I thought you were my friend! Give Buster back!”
A policeman lifted her, soothing as best he could. The car drove off, leaving George slumped on the bench, Buster whining in his lap.
“I’m keeping him,” George growled.
“Fine,” Charlotte agreed. “She’ll be better off in care.”
“Like hell you’d know what care’s like,” he snapped. “Sorry—but you don’t.”
They didn’t speak that evening. Charlotte bathed Buster, cradling him like a baby. George stared out the kitchen window, guilt heavy as a stone.
“I can’t stop thinking about her,” Charlotte admitted later.
“Don’t cry—it’s not good for the baby.”
“George… what if we took her in?”
His heart leapt. “You mean that?”
“But what if they won’t let us? Her mum’s still—”
“They will,” he cut in. “I’ve got contacts.”
Three months later, George pulled up at the care home. Maisie was playing outside when she spotted him.
“George! Are you taking me home today?”
“Yeah. Today,” he grinned, suddenly feeling ten again.
“Why didn’t Charlotte come?”
“She’s waiting with your baby brother.”
“And Buster? Is he there too?”
“Course. You’re his best mate.”
Driving home, lighter than he’d felt in years, George knew they’d done the right thing. They’d fought for guardianship. Maybe they couldn’t save every kid—but they’d saved one.
His children would never starve. Never scavenge for crumbs in sandpits. That was enough.
