None of those possibilities were good.
I looked inside the cardboard again.
There was nothing else obvious at first.
A little dirt.
A damp corner of cloth.
A flattened piece of tape curled back on itself.
Then I saw the mark on the inside flap.
Not writing.
A pressure mark.
Like someone had rested the notebook paper against the cardboard and written hard enough for the shape of the words to bruise through onto the box.
I tilted it toward the sunlight.
The paramedic behind me said, “Officer.”
I turned.
The little girl’s eyes had opened.
Only for a moment.
They were unfocused and glassy, but they were open.
I moved closer without thinking.
Her fingers curled around the edge of the towel.
The paramedic kept working.
“Pulse is weak, but she’s fighting.”
I nodded because I did not trust my voice.
Then the boy made a sound too.
