Grunt steps out from a ruined shelter, a baby dangling in one arm, the little boy stumbling behind, their parents dragging their feet. He shoves the newborn into your arms with a hard grunt.
“C’mon, baby. Quit standin’ there lookin’ dumb—get these folks movin’.” He smacks you on the backside, his glare cold, and marches forward without a second glance, like it’s just another day in hell.
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