“Emily,” I asked, keeping my voice controlled, “when did they last act normal?”
She stared at the floor. “They’re not my parents,” she whispered. “My mom died last year. Cancer. That’s my aunt Lisa and her boyfriend Rick. Aunt Lisa said she’d take care of us, but then Rick came, and they started using the medicine that makes them sleep.”
Nine years old. Not six.
She looked younger because hunger and fear shrink you.
Sirens wailed in the distance. Then the rumble of motorcycles as Tank and Doc rolled in. Doc—former Navy corpsman—took one look at the baby and moved like he’d done this a thousand times. Tank scanned the van and his face hardened into something cold.
The EMTs arrived and chaos hit fast: Narcan, shouting, radios, police lights bouncing off gas pumps. Social workers appeared like the final wave in a storm.
Emily pressed against my side, terrified. “You’re taking Jamie away,” she sobbed. “I tried so hard. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
I knelt again and looked her in the eyes. “Emily, you saved his life. Nobody’s mad at you.”A social worker approached, clipboard already out. “We’ll need to place the children—”
“Together,” I cut in.
