By Christ, the poor desperate woman was hiding babbies in the alcove. “Get up woman, and clutch your babbies.” The beautiful babies cooed. Tarry’s stone cop heart turned to warm Irish porridge. He’d learned to write off nenio infants as doomed. But not these. A starving babby does not cry. These could be saved. They weren’t Irish, but they was still babbies. He brought the mother and babbies home to his apartment, and fed them his finest RX1 potatoes, cooked by the current from his stolen solar setup. The woman’s name, the best he could make it, was Rain. The babbies she had not named yet, in fear they would die.