I’m 41, and for the past year my life has been fluorescent lights, sore feet, and hospital bills.

I work double shifts at a grocery store because my younger sister, Dana, is sick, and her treatment costs more than I make.

Our parents are gone.

Then a little girl stepped up to my register with a bottle of milk pressed to her chest.

There is no backup plan. No savings. No relatives with sudden generosity.

Just me, trying to keep her alive one paycheck at a time.

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