Boston lay on the ground trembling, tiny limbs jerking as hunger overwhelmed his small body. His cries came out broken and sharp, each sound pleading for milk. The cold floor felt frightening, but the ache inside his belly felt worse. He curled and uncurled, convulsing lightly, eyes wide with panic as he searched for comfort.
Mom rushed in, heart racing at the sight. She knelt beside him, lifting his head gently and speaking softly. Boston’s cries grew louder for a moment, fear mixing with desperation. He reached with shaking hands, mouth opening again and again, begging for the bottle he knew would soothe him.
Mom sat him upright, supporting his back, careful and calm. She checked his breathing, rubbed his chest, and whispered reassurance. Slowly, she brought the warm milk closer. Boston smelled it and cried harder, body still trembling, but hope flickered through his tears.
When the bottle touched his lips, he latched desperately. His hands clutched tight, knuckles pale, afraid it would be taken away. Milk dribbled as he drank too fast, swallowing air between gulps. Mom paused, burped him gently, then offered more, patient and steady.
Gradually, the convulsing eased. His jerks softened into small shivers. The sharp cries faded into quiet whimpers, then silence except for rhythmic drinking. Color returned to his face. His eyes blinked slowly, exhaustion replacing panic.
After feeding, Mom held Boston close, keeping him upright. He sighed, a long release, and rested his cheek against her chest. His breathing became even. The ground no longer mattered. Hunger no longer ruled.
Mom stayed still, listening, watching, ready. She knew how fragile these moments were. Boston slept, safe and warm, milk filling his belly and love holding him together again. Dawn arrived quietly, promising care, patience, and steady hope for the fragile morning ahead.
