Sebastian sat at his desk in Bloomsbury House, surrounded by files, each with a child’s name on it. They were piled high, appearing to reach to the ceiling like a tall, unstable tower. He grabbed his head in frustration.
Marla stood beside him. “Sebastian, what’s wrong?”
“It’s strange, I think, that freedom depends on money. Don’t get me wrong. It’s timing, politics, bravery, and luck, but mostly money, and that is something we’re running short of.” He patted the side of a file stack. “There are so many more children.”
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