There was a pause.
Then dispatch came back sharper.
“Unit, repeat that.”
“Two infants,” I said. “Alive. Barely. Send EMS and notify supervisor.”
The girl made one weak sound then, a thin little breath that was almost a cry and almost not enough to count.
It nearly broke me.
I had seen grown men scream from pain.
I had seen car wrecks no family should have to identify.
I had stood in doorways after domestic calls and watched children stare at the floor because the adults in their lives had taught them eye contact was dangerous.
But that sound was different.
It was not a baby asking for comfort.
It was a baby asking the world to notice she still existed.
I found the second safety pin when I loosened the boy’s shirt.
It was rusted like the first one.
The pin was still fastened.
But the note was gone.
