**Peter**
Peter dashed out of his flat and hurried toward the corner shop, desperate to beat closing time—he had no intention of eating dinner without bread. By the entrance stood a tiny girl, barely four years old, clutching an equally tiny terrier.
“Auntie, please buy my puppy some bread,” the girl whispered, gazing hopefully at a woman heading inside.
“Where’s your mum, love? Why are you out so late? Go home!” The woman marched past, leaving the girl deflated.
Peter, who had witnessed the exchange, stopped. The child’s eyes were heart-wrenchingly sad. Unlike the woman, he guessed the truth—the girl wasn’t begging for the dog. She was hungry herself.
“Does your pup eat bread, then?” Peter asked, bending down with a smile.
“Oh yes,” the girl nodded eagerly. “He adores sausages and sweets, really. But when he’s peckish, he’ll take bread too.”
“Right,” Peter sighed. “Wait here—I’ll be quick.”
Inside the shop, he grabbed a loaf, then impulsively tossed in milk, yoghurt, biscuits, sweets, and a pack of Cumberland sausages. Standing in the queue, he couldn’t help but think of his own childhood—a mother who drank away her cleaning wages, an absent father, days spent scouring playgrounds at dusk with a torch, hunting for half-eaten biscuits in the sandpit. That girl outside had the same hollow look he’d once worn.
Returning, he found her still there, the terrier trembling in her arms.
“Got your pup some dinner,” Peter said gently. “Do you live far?”
“No, just over there.” She pointed to a weathered block of flats across the road.
“Come on, I’ll carry it for you.”
The girl brightened instantly, skipping ahead and humming a tune Peter vaguely recognised.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Lily,” she beamed. “And this is Mr. Wiggles.”
She explained she lived with her mum and gran, and that she’d found Mr. Wiggles abandoned on the street. Peter clung to the hope that maybe Lily’s life wasn’t as grim as he feared—until they reached her building.
“I live there,” Lily said, pointing to a second-floor window blaring music. “But I’m not going in. Me and Mr. Wiggles will eat out here.”
“Is your gran home?” Peter pressed. It was nearly eleven—too late for a child to be outside.
“Yeah,” Lily scowled. “She got her pension today. They’re drinking in the kitchen.”
Peter hesitated. The street was empty, the night air thick. He couldn’t leave her there.
“Go upstairs, lock your room, eat, and sleep. It’s not safe out here—someone might snatch Mr. Wiggles.”
Lily clutched the dog tighter. Peter walked her to the door, waited until she was inside, then trudged home, his mood black. He’d assumed times had changed—that social services actually *did* their jobs. Apparently not.
His wife, Emily—who was six months pregnant and therefore *very* opinionated—first scolded him for being late, then noticed his grim expression. Over dinner, he told her about Lily and the scruffy terrier who was likely her only friend.
“You did right, helping her,” Emily said softly. “But love, there’s only so much we can do. We’ve our own baby coming.”
Peter knew she was right. Yet that night, he barely slept. Lily’s face haunted him.
A week later, returning from a walk, they spotted Lily outside the shop again—sobbing like her world had ended.
“Lily! What happened?” Peter knelt beside her.
“They took Mr. Wiggles!” she wailed. “Big boys grabbed him and ran that way!”
Peter sprinted off, returning minutes later with the terrier. Emily, who’d stayed to comfort Lily, looked pale.
“She’s bruised,” she whispered. “Says her mum ‘disciplined’ her yesterday. Peter, we’re calling the police.”
As the officers arrived, Lily screamed at Peter, calling him a traitor, begging not to be taken. He felt like one—but letting her stay wasn’t an option.
When the police car drove off, Peter sat numbly on the bench, Mr. Wiggles in his lap.
“I’m keeping him,” he muttered.
“Fine,” Emily agreed. “But Lily’s better off in care.”
“Easy for you to say,” he snapped. “You’ve no idea what her life’s like.”
They barely spoke that evening. Emily bathed the terrier and cuddled him on the sofa. Peter stared out the kitchen window, guilt like a stone in his chest.
Later, Emily appeared, tearful. “I can’t stop thinking about her.”
“Don’t cry—bad for the baby.”
“Peter… what if we took Lily home?”
His heart leaped. “Seriously?”
“But what if they won’t let us? She’s got a mother.”
Peter smirked. “They will. I’ve got connections.”
Three months later, Peter arrived at the foster home. Lily was outside, playing.
“Peter!” She sprinted over. “Are you taking me today?”
“Today,” he grinned. “Emily’s waiting—with a surprise. You’ve a baby brother now.”
“And Mr. Wiggles?”
“Obviously. He’s missed you terribly.”
Driving home, Peter exhaled. They’d done it—adopted Lily. He knew he couldn’t save every neglected child. But he’d saved one.
And he’d make damn sure *his* kids never knew hunger, never had to dig for crumbs in a sandpit.
