I try to call to her, but what comes out is just a puff of breath. He’s dead. He must be. Still, I can’t look away, and my heart pounds in my ears.

She stops with his arm in front of her mouth, her nose crinkled, and her lips drawn back like a growling dog.

The piece of paper the man is still holding is now in front of her face. She pauses to stare at it.

She pushes the man’s hand out to get a better look.

The skin of her nose straightens, and her mouth closes, hiding her teeth behind her lips. Her eyes warm as she stares at the paper. Her mouth begins to tremble, and she moves his arm back onto his chest. She leans away from the man.

Paige puts her hands up to cradle her head, swaying gently back and forth like a worn-out woman with too many problems.

Then she spins and runs off into the darkness.

I stand in the shadows, my heart slowly tearing over what she’s going through. My baby sister is choosing to be human against all her new animal instincts. And she’s doing it at the cost of starving to death.

I walk over to the man and bend down to see what he’s holding. I step around high-heeled shoes and makeup jars to reach him. He’s still breathing but unconscious.

Still breathing.

I sit down shakily next to him, not sure if my wobbly legs will hold me up.

His clothes are dirty and worn, and his beard and hair are scraggly, as if he’s been on the road for weeks. Someone once told me that heart attacks can last for days. I wonder how long he’s been here.

I have the craziest urge to call an ambulance.

It’s hard to believe that we used to live in a world where complete strangers would have given him medicine and hooked him up to machines to monitor his condition. They would have looked after him around the clock. Absolute strangers who knew nothing about him. Strangers who wouldn’t have even rummaged through his stuff to steal useful items.

And everyone would have thought that was perfectly normal.

I lift his arm to see what’s on the paper he’s holding. I don’t want to take it out of his hand, because whatever it is, it must have been important enough for him to get it out and grip it as he’s dying.

It’s a torn and stained piece of paper with a kid’s crayon drawing. A house, a tree, a stick figure adult holding the hand of a stick figure kid. Scrawled along the bottom in shaky block letters are the words ‘I Love You, Daddy’ in pink crayon.

I look at it for a long time in the shadowy light before I put his hand back down gently on his chest.