They said it was just a mild illness and sent her home, the small child wrapped in the blanket she'd brought her in.
Outside, winter bit into her skin, and she held Jasmine to her chest, wrapping her coat over the baby. Cars drove past her, icy water flew from the tires, showering her with freezing, dirty drops. Home was an hour's walk, and she pushed her way through the wind.
The flat, a tiny studio above a shop that seemed to change hands every week (currently it was a second-hand bookshop), was dark and cold. She turned on the gas heater and sat beside it, trying to feed the child.
Jasmine was hot to the touch. She was worse than before the trip to the hospital.
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