The silence in the Bronx studio apartment was heavy, broken only by the rhythmic, desperate rattle of a plastic container. Marlene Foster shook the formula tin once more, her movements fueled by a frantic hope that defied the laws of physics. But the bottom was bare. Not a single grain of powder remained to sustain her eight-month-old daughter, Juniper. Marlene placed the empty vessel on a laminate counter cluttered with final notices and unpaid bills, the paper trail of a life that had unraveled with terrifying speed. In her arms, Juniper let out a thin, reedy whimper. It wasn’t the...
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