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    The baby was crying in the inayofuata room, and I followed the noise. It was such a weak cry, I wasn't sure I liked what I heard anymore. My upendo for Regina had not changed, had not shrunk nor grown. The flaming moto was strong in my gut, and as I crossed the threshold into my infant's bedroom, it was fed kwa the oxygen of her sweet, yet small wails. I bent over the railing of the crib, kitanda cha mtoto mchanga and stared down into the baby's eyes. They were small, frightened brown puddles. They were not the eyes of me au Derick. She was the loner in a lonely world, and I had to protect her....