A family SUV slowed on the opposite shoulder, then pulled over well behind my cruiser.
A woman stepped out with both hands over her mouth.
A man beside her froze halfway around the hood.
Neither of them came close until I waved them back.
I did not need more hands.
I needed space.
I needed shade.
I needed whoever had left these babies here to still be somewhere close enough to make a mistake.
The EMS unit arrived first.
Then my supervisor.
The next minutes became a blur of practiced motion.
A paramedic knelt beside the open cruiser door.
Another opened a kit and started calling out numbers.
Small cuffs.
Temperature checks.
Oxygen.
Tiny blankets.
Hospital intake would later put everything into clean boxes.
Time found.
Condition on arrival.
Items recovered.
But there was nothing clean about the way those babies looked on the roadside, red and limp in shirts too big for them, while adults with radios tried to make the world make sense again.
