OMG! Baby Donal was a ticking time bomb of hunger, and the moment had come—too late. His face scrunched up like a crumpled paper, lips trembling before the explosion. Then it hit: a full-bodied, air-splitting cry that shook the quiet like thunder.
His tiny fists clenched, punching the air in helpless protest, eyes squeezed shut as if to block out the unfairness of waiting even a second longer. His belly had made the first complaints, little gurgles of impatience, but now his whole body joined the chorus.
“Waaah! Waaah!” His cries grew more desperate by the second, each one louder, rawer, redder. His legs kicked with rhythm, like he was trying to march his way to the bottle himself. His mouth opened wide, tongue trembling, cheeks flushed with fury.
His mom was there—rushing, fumbling with the bottle, testing the milk’s warmth—but in Donal’s mind, it was forever. He didn’t understand time, didn’t understand warming milk or patience. He only knew one thing: he was hungry now.
Even the sight of the bottle didn’t calm him at first. He was too deep in the storm, breath catching between howls, hiccupping in sobs. Only when the bottle touched his lips did the cries falter, replaced by fast, eager sucking and gasps of relief between gulps.
Tears still clung to his lashes, his chest heaving, but the world was right again. His fists unclenched. The storm passed, leaving silence and satisfied swallows behind.
