She's tiny in my arms and barely weighs anything despite having finished her pizza earlier. And I'm hating myself for worrying about her nutrition. What the fuck?
Internally groaning, I walk down the hallway of the basement. From the stairs that lead here, it doesn't have a door right away. The hallway is dimmed and looks to be about twenty-five feet down to the door at the end of it. There are pipes, broiler, and electrical wirings to my left and a small blind spot to my right halfway through the hallway that's nothing but a space that would fit a washing machine or something—by the looks of the sealed water pipe on the wall—opposite to a bolted door to my left. I assume this must've been the owner's old basement, converted to a rented apartment.
Reluctantly, I set Malia down in front of the apartment's door, keeping a hand on her waist to keep her steady. "Keys?"
"In my purse," she slurs.
