Misplaced

She looked everywhere: at the train station, dumpster alleys, inside big black plastic bags and trash barrels, and piles of boxes which would soon serve as sleeping mats, but no, no kid was found. Being homeless means you have to do everything yourself; can’t trust the police to look for an eleven-month old baby of a nobody. So she looked, and looked, and didn’t sleep–until she found a tiny bluish foot jutting out from under a parked truck down the next block.